Into Light
by Glass Prism
Summary: The de Chagnys journey to Coney Island, to a man they once feared and to secrets long-withheld. A retelling/AU of Love Never Dies, with a dash of prequel and a good quantity of sequel.
1. Chapter 1

Welcome, dear reader! Before you venture into my humble story, I have a few quick things to tell you about the story.

First: I like _Love Never Dies_. I listened to the soundtrack and it was wonderful, and Ramin Karimloo is, in a word, awesome.

Second: As much as I love it, I was dissatisfied with, well, several aspects of the story. So I took it upon myself to rectify those parts of the musical. Hence, a retelling of _Love Never Dies_.

But thirdly: If you think this is a mere retelling of the musical, you are wrong. It will feel like one, at first, but trust me when I tell you that, about a quarter of the way through, the story is going to change GREATLY. Hence, an AU as well.

And as for the prequel/sequel parts...well, you'll have to read to find out.

So, enjoy my story!

Chapter 1

Paris. The heyday of the Third Republic of France was well under way. Only two years after the revolution that had toppled the King of France and stripped the nobility of their powers ("But only temporarily, thank God" was Raoul's often-muttered response to this piece of history), France was experiencing another revolution, but on a social and economic scale. Industries were booming, the mines and quarries for once more important than the small farms France was known for. Paris teemed with people, both from factories and from the countryside.

Away from the hustle and bustle of the city, however, on the very edges of the city of Paris, sat a small chateau. It was much expanded, as befitted a home for a Vicomte and his small family, though it was nowhere near as grand as the Chagny's ancestral home, as befitted a building meant only for a summer residence. It was several miles from Paris, though the recent and quick expansion of the city meant that this might not be so. The well-kept grounds were surrounded by rich farmland that had been tilled for generations by the peasants.

The chateau itself, while small compared to the great homes of the nobility, was quite grand next to the small peasant cottages. The three expensively furnished stories were more than enough room for the Vicomte, his beautiful wife, their son, and a small group of servants, to live in.

It was also within this home that the aforementioned son was holding his first musical recital.

Gustave finished off the composition with a flourish, then rose from the piano bench and performed a little bow, a maestro in the making. The audience, who had been listening with rapt attention, burst into loud applause and cries of "Encore!"

Of course, the audience consisted only of Vicomte and Vicomtesse de Chagny. Gustave's parents.

"Another work of genius, Gustave," said Raoul. "A masterpiece in the making, don't you agree, Christine?" Christine, sitting beside him, hid her smile at his extravagant praise.

"Yes, it was very lovely," she replied. "All your compositions are beautiful."

Gustave hopped next to them rather ungracefully, a ten-year-old boy once more. "Was it really that good?" he asked worriedly. "I think I hit a wrong note in the middle, and it wasn't that good in the beginning."

"You are too hard on yourself, Gustave," murmured Christine. "You are years ahead of others your age." And, she thought to herself, despite the cancellation of any more music lessons. Money had become too tight for such luxuries. Christine had only been glad that Raoul had not been forced to auction off the piano. She was not sure how she would have explained that to Gustave, who remained unaware of his parents' financial troubles.

Gustave tilted his head, catching her brief, troubled expression. "Mother? Are you all right?"

Raoul shot her a glance as well. Christine waved them both away, putting a smile on again. "I am fine, Gustave. But I think it is nearly time for bed."

When Gustave had disappeared up the steps, Christine drew shut the curtains, her husband closing the piano lid. He said, "Gustave has a rare gift."

Christine's back was to him as she said, "Yes, he does."

"He will be a magnificent composer one day. And if not, the way he plays his instruments will stun audiences anyway."

She turned around. "Just like his grandfather," she murmured.

Something in Raoul's eyes seemed to flicker. "Of course, his grandfather," he repeated. He smiled slightly. "And his mother."

She returned his smile. "I think not. I've only ever sung, Raoul. I remember Papa once gave me his violin to try. The 'music' I created could put the Baroness's cats to shame." She shook her head mirthfully. "And I've never even tried my hand at composing."

Raoul laughed at her mocking description of her skills, but sobered quickly. "But his singing voice, I think, is yours."

"And not yours?" she teased in an attempt at lightness.

"I believe my singing would go quite well with your violin playing."

Christine smiled once more and gave the curtains a final flick, shutting out the view of the setting sun. When she joined Raoul, her face had settled into a more serious air. "Raoul, our finances-"

He held up a hand. "Christine, it is not for you to worry about."

She frowned. "Raoul, you can't hide our troubles from me-"

"My troubles, Christine." He stroked her hair. "It's my responsibility to take care of the money, Christine. And you do not need to worry."

She lowered her head. "I have heard things, Raoul. Many of the other ladies are talking too – their husbands are being forced to sell off their lands...and the banks are not lending to us…and you said yourself that Phillipe did not leave the money in good hands." She was wringing her hands, and she forced them apart, trying to apply the techniques she had learned for calming down on stage. "After all, you said that was why we had to cancel the music lessons for Gustave…and for selling your old home…"

"Shush, Christine, it's all right," said Raoul soothingly. "The money from the auction – and the money we saved – it is enough to cover our debts. I know what to do. Trust me." He cupped her chin in his hands when she still looked unsure. "Come, Little Lotte, don't let these worrisome thoughts fill your head."

She forced a smile. "Very well, Raoul. I do trust you." She kissed his cheek, then moved away. "I am going to put Gustave to bed."

"Tell him good night from me."

"Are you sure you don't want to come?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Since you are so worried, I will stay down here and look after our money." She made to protest but he waved a hand. "It is no trouble, Christine. Go to bed. I will be with you shortly."

She acquiesced gracefully, gliding up the steps. As soon as she was gone, Raoul let out a heavy sigh. It had been difficult lying to his wife, but he did not want to worry her – and moreover, he did not want to look a failure in her eyes.

For it was true that the Chagnys were experiencing financial problems, though the extent of them had been carefully hidden away from Christine and Gustave. The Chagnys had been a wealthy and high-born family, but Raoul's father had carelessly spent the money, and his habits had only been continued by Phillipe, the now deceased Comte de Chagny. Raoul's inheritance had been their accumulated debts; it had not been helped by his own youthful spending. And though he had protested Christine's (short-lived) pursuit of a career as an opera singer, he had been secretly grateful for the money it had brought in.

But Christine had not performed in years; Raoul hadn't heard so much as a note from her the last few months, which was a great pity: Christine's voice had been likened to that of an angel's for the brief time she was on stage. It was so clear and pure in tone that only a few months performing had guaranteed her the title of "Soprano of the Century".

But she had retired – permanently, it seemed – in preparation for the birth of their son. And there Raoul – and Christine, though her only fault lay in ignorance of the situation – had made another mistake, lavishing toys and clothing and gifts upon their beautiful son as soon as he was born, pitifully weak though he was. For a few blissful years Raoul had allowed himself to forget about the mounting bills and enjoyed being with his beautiful wife and adoring son. But now his spending days had finally caught up to him.

He cleared his desk – an antique mahogany table hand fitted together – of extraneous papers. There weren't many. Most were letters from banks all over France demanding he settle his debts. Others were long lines of figures he had painfully worked out himself, almost all ending in the negative. Already he could feel a headache coming on, as well as a deep, gut-wrenching sense of worry. He knew that there was little hope of him paying any of the demanded accounts.

It was while brushing off another, quite-angry letter from a banker, that he spotted the note.

It stood out immediately from the others by sheer expensiveness – the envelope was made of thick paper, and the letter itself was quite heavy for only one sheet. The address was handwritten in elegant cursive, and the envelope held down by a scarlet stamp. He ripped it open with care, then proceeded to read the letter.

When he was finished, he set it down to think.

The letter had been polite enough. It had come from somewhere in America (Coney Island was the location mentioned, though Raoul had never heard of the place), but the French was impeccably correct. It had been short and to the point. The man owned an amusement park with the extraordinarily flamboyant name of 'Phantasma', and he wished Christine to sing there, just once. In return, he was offering a huge sum of money, one Raoul didn't think he would have refused even if he were not in financial trouble. This letter was a heaven-sent answer to their – his – problems.

But of course, there was the matter of convincing Christine. It was unthinkable that he tell her their very real and very dangerous situation. No, he would have to present it in a wholesome manner. Perhaps a vacation – they had not had one in a while, presumably to stay at home to properly care for Gustave (there had been unfortunate complications during birth that had left Christine unable to have another child and Gustave hanging on the edge of life and death), but actually because there was too little money for a proper holiday.

But this proposition surely justified the money they would use. He put the letter aside, quietly making a note to look up this Coney Island – and this mysterious benefactor, 'Mr. Y'.

* * *

Christine looked up from the letter, a frown wrinkling her brow. "Sing? At…what is this 'Coney Island'?"

Raoul nodded. "I have looked the place up. It is a beach, an amusement resort of some sort, off America's east coast. There are theme parks and shows and all kinds of entertainment." He offered a tentative smile. "I was hoping…we could vacation there. It would be good for you and for Gustave. He needs to go out more, I think."

Christine nodded absentmindedly, still turning the letter over in her hand. "And this…Phantasma? And this Mr. Y? What do you know of him?"

"Phantasma is a relatively new amusement park – one of the only ones there, in fact. It was started a few years back, actually, but it has already inspired imitators. My men have told me that the freak shows and acrobatics are particularly entertaining. They actually said it was responsible for much of Coney Island's success and popularity today."

"And I am to perform there?" said Christine, still skeptical.

"This Mr. Y you were asking about – he is an impresario, an entrepreneur. He has made a great deal of money, and he finances concerts, plays, music…a connoisseur of some sort, I believe."

Christine didn't speak for a moment. Finally she whispered, "Can we afford it? A trip, all the way to America?"

Raoul placed his hand over her small one. "Christine, he is offering a large amount of money. And…we don't absolutely need it…but it would help…we could afford more servants, better items…music lessons for Gustave once more…"

Christine's gaze cleared at the last part. She gave a decisive nod. "Very well, Raoul. I shall go and sing there." She handed the letter back, shrugging slightly. "And it is only for one night. One performance, actually."

"Of course," smiled Raoul, trying to hid his relief. "We needn't stay there very long, Christine. A week at the most."

She laughed, looking happier than Raoul had seen her in years. "Oh Raoul, we're journeying to another continent! I don't think a week would be enough to see everything!"

Raoul joined her laughter. "No, I suppose not. Two weeks, then? A month? Five years?" He hugged Christine, lifting her up spontaneously. "Just think, Christine, you on stage once more. It will just like the day I met you…"

"Yes…" For some reason she was no longer smiling. She was gazing at the letter once more, eyes seeming to cloud over. "Just like old times…" She sighed, moving from Raoul's grasp. "I should practice…I haven't used my voice in years…"

"I'm sure you will sound as lovely as ever," assured Raoul, but Christine only shook her head, demurring quietly.

"I will practice tonight and all the days until the performance," she said with that strange decisiveness that had always come to her before she sang. Raoul wasn't sure why he felt a little shiver go down his spine. Christine's singing was lovely, and he should be rejoicing at her decision to do what had made her so happy. He said this out loud, but Christine shook off his worries.

"It is nothing," she said, "just thinking of things from a while back…"

Unbidden came the image of a rose, a white mask, and a face that looked as if it came from hell itself…he pushed the memories away, wondering why the long ago thoughts should appear now.

* * *

Gustave was naturally excited to be going.

"A vacation?" he repeated. "We're really going out? On vacation?"

"Yes, Gustave," said Christine, tucking the covers around his small body. "We're going by special request, too… there will be so many things for you to see, you know…" She sat down, musing, "I suppose we all must brush up on our English, though…"

"I know English," piped up Gustave.

His mother smiled. "Of course you do, Gustave."

"I do," he pouted. "I really do. Father taught me a while ago, but I still remember!" He flashed to another thought. "Do you think Father could teach me to swim there, too?"

"Of course. Coney Island is a beach resort, Gustave. I'm sure there will be many places for you to learn."

"All right." Gustave burrowed deep into his pillows, yawning. "And you will sing too, won't you Mother?"

"I will. I was going to start rehearsing tomorrow."

"Can I listen? I like your singing."

She kissed his forehead. "Of course you may, Gustave. Perhaps you can play one of your compositions along, too."

"Yes…" He perked up. "Mother, do you think people might actually like my music?"

She smoothed back his hair. Gustave often worried about the reception his music might make. He had admitted one night that his schoolmates sometimes mocked his ability to make music so well, preferring the rough-and-tumble world of sports and boyhood games. Christine also knew that Raoul quietly agreed with this view, and Gustave absolutely adored his father. Sometimes, it felt like only she and Gustave truly understood this love for music.

She answered him, "They will love it, Gustave. You can be sure of that."

"Would you sing if I wrote it for you, Mother?"

"Of course!"

"And if I make it to the Opera Populaire, you will be on stage singing for me, right?"

She couldn't hold back a laugh at his innocent dreams. "I will, Gustave, though I think I will be too old to do any really difficult pieces."

He frowned, unable to imagine his mother as anything other than how she looked now. "You won't be old, Mother," he declared. "And even if you are, you'll still sing for me." He suddenly looked shy. "Right?" It softened the entire tone of his last sentence, enough that Christine could shake off thoughts of another man with just as forceful and commanding a personality.

"Right." She gave him one last kiss. "But now, you must sleep! Good night, Gustave."

"Good night, Mother."

* * *

A few days before they were to leave, Christine visited her oldest friend and her mother, Meg and Madame Giry, at their home.

The Opera Populaire had been rebuilt and given over to the care of new managers, but had never managed to gain back an audience the size before its pre-chandelier-crash days. The Girys had moved to another, smaller theater, where such drama and disasters were far more unlikely to occur. An accident on stage, as well as her old age, had left Madame Giry unable to command the ballet corps, but Meg had been more than capable of taking over the role, having learned all the orders and postures at her mother's knee. Nevertheless, Madame Giry still insisted on watching from the edge of the stage, scolding at a dancer out of synchronization with the rest.

Today, though, was the end of the opera season, and the two Girys were enjoying a much-needed rest.

"America? Coney Island?" Meg whispered. "Oh, Christine, how wonderful! Aren't you excited?"

"Of course, Meg!" Despite the gap in social classes, the two still got on beautifully. Christine felt as if the pressures and rules of the nobility fell away when she entered the area backstage of the theater, and Meg was all too happy to brag of her friendship with the Vicomtesse de Chagny – and to regale them with the romantic tale of Christine's marriage to the Vicomte, the patron of their opera. And if none of the dancers believed her, then it was all the more enjoyable to see their jaws fall open upon seeing Christine walk casually into Meg's room.

"It will be the first time I've performed in…well, years," continued Christine nervously. "I hope I do not disappoint them." At times, the title of "Soprano of the Century" was a heavier burden than that of Vicomtesse.

Madame Giry patted her foster daughter's knee. "Practice and you will do splendidly, my dear," she told her in her usual no-nonsense manner. "You have the most beautiful voice I have ever heard, my child. And I've always believed that."

"Yes, and you can always trust Maman's opinion," chimed in Meg. "She listened to La Carlotta's excellent singing for five seasons! She knows, Christine!"

The three women shared a laugh; La Carlotta, furious over the catastrophes that had befallen her, and grief-stricken by the death of her lover, Piangi, had left Paris, and France entirely, soon after the disastrous performance of Don Juan Triumphant, much to the relief of the other members and the harassed managers of the Opera Populaire. They had looked carefully for a diva who could sing and who was nowhere near as demanding.

"I suppose you will hear about me in the papers once more!" said Christine. "The 'Soprano of the Century', returned to the stage after a ten year vacation!"

Meg laughed, "I will clip them out and show you when you return!" Then she impulsively hugged her friend. "Be safe, Christine," she whispered. "You wouldn't leave me with no friend to brag about, would you?"

Christine giggled. "No, Meg, I am not as cruel as that." She stood, hugging Madame Giry as well. To her surprise, she felt tears pricking her eyes, and she saw a suspicious wetness on Meg's and Madame Giry's. She lifted her head, willing the tears to disappear, and said, "I'll be back in a few weeks, anyway, to tell you all about it!"

The three walked together to the door; there Meg gave her one more quick hug. "Goodbye, Christine. Come back soon, you hear?"

"I will. Good bye Meg. Good bye, Madame."

* * *

A little slow right now, but give me time.

Constructive criticism is vastly appreciated.

Oh, and the title? Yeah, no idea what it means. I'll figure out a symbolic meaning for it sometime.

Right now, I feel this is the best thing I have ever written. (Not that it means much.) Watch how quickly my opinion changes.

And might as well stick this here, at the end: I own nothing, have always owned nothing, and will continue to own nothing, from _Love Never Dies_. Except, possibly, some special merchandise should I win the Facebook raffle.


	2. Chapter 2

This chapter is so horrendously short, I'm going to post a new one tomorrow, instead of in a few days' time. Blech.

By the way, the freaks are the hardest for me to characterize, simply because I don't see or hear much of them on the soundtrack or videos. So if I am way off the mark on them, tell me so. I am looking to a particular reader who seems to specialize in freak-related FanFiction to help me on this. :)

Or I can just wave my hands and say, "It's an AU! That's why they're OOC!"

Whatever works.

Chapter 2

Fleck stood outside the door and bowed low.

"Master…a letter."

From behind the door emerged a figure, cloaked and dressed all in black save for a white mask, which shone even in the dim light. The Master took the letter and ripped it open. Fleck took some time to marvel at how gracefully he managed to do everything, even tearing open a letter.

He read it over quickly. A flicker of a smile might have appeared; Fleck could not be sure. If so, that was a rarity. In the decade that she had worked with the Master, she had never seen him show any sign of joy.

He breathed some words. It might have been, "It worked." She did not know.

The Master looked up suddenly, stuffing the letter into a coat pocket. "Miss Fleck," he said crisply, "start construction on the concert hall. String up the park with those new electrical lights we've heard so much about." He paused, thinking. "And start the other projects we've discussed."

"The pavilion?" she whispered.

"Yes."

"Very well, Master." Another bow. She started to leave.

"Fleck!"

She paused, awaiting further instructions.

"Check on the carriages every day until Chris – until the de Chagnys arrive. And prepare a suite in the hotel – our largest one. Move a piano into that one as well." His voice dropped low, a hint of warning tingeing his beautifully modulated tone. "And Fleck – do not make any mistakes."

She nodded, knowing she wouldn't. Her devotion to the Master was as great as that of the other freaks – complete and total. It was he who had been a freak with them, he who had succeeded in buying out the sideshow and creating the park. When he had done so, he had not forgotten the other freaks, but had brought them along and given them more freedom than they dreamed possible, given them the privilege of creating their own performances and the chance of being admired for things other than their odd appearances..

She knew also the reason why he had done all this for them. It was because he felt some common bond with them because of their physical differences from normal human beings. But that was the only similarity. The Master was also above them, had always been above them, and he deserved his position. He was, simply, a genius, the architect behind the whole park in which she and her friends worked and lived.

She wondered, not for the first time, what was behind the mask. He had started off on display, but none of the other freaks had seen his true face, not if he could help it. But it was none of her concern. He was good to her and the others, and that was enough. Sometimes she worried for him, but she also knew that he could take care of himself. There was a remoteness, a self-sufficiency, to him that kept people from knowing him too well. Or from trying to.

She left the Aerie, the tower in which the Master lived, and started to relay the orders. The Master was already gone by then, but he had left the door open, as he often did; most often he met them at the bottom of the Aerie, not the top. So it was from there that she heard something she had never heard before – melodies from a piano, music of a wonder and beauty unmatched by any she had ever heard.

* * *

"Father! Father!"

Gustave saw Raoul enter the doorway from the top of the staircase. In the time it took Raoul to walk across the foyer, Gustave had run down the long staircase and taken a flying leap into the air.

"Gustave!" Christine couldn't help yelling, but Raoul caught the boy, laughing.

"Oof!" He came close to dropping Gustave but just managed to hold on. "Gustave…" he chuckled, "you're a little too old and a little too big for this treatment!"

Gustave ignored that. "Father, I found a toy-"

"You found one?" asked Raoul in great surprise. "Perhaps you ought to clean your room more often…"

His son glared up at him. "No, Father! It was a gift! It came in a letter." He pointed to the end table near the door, on which lay the aforementioned letter. "It came this morning, Father. Louis picked it up and gave the toy to me. He said it came in a package."

Raoul crossed over and picked it up. Christine took her son's hand and joined him, looking it over. It was not so much a letter as a contract, and a meticulously detailed, well-thought-out one, and from the mysterious Mr. Y who had written for Christine. Her eyes widened at the amount of money he was offering.

"Raoul! It's – that much, for…" She scanned the letter again. "…one aria?" She searched the envelope. "Did this aria come with the letter?"

Raoul shook his head; he had already searched. "No. I think you may receive it when we arrive."

She fingered the paper nervously. "But the date…even if we leave tomorrow, I will only have a few days to prepare… Raoul, I'm not sure, do you think…?"

"I think you will astound the stage, as usual," said Raoul with great confidence. He kissed the top of her head, though this did not exactly dispel her doubts. Somehow, she had never been able to capture the fire and emotion of her few performances back at the Opera Populaire. It was like something had gone out, something had left her. Something that was…

That did not bear thinking of.

"Christine?" murmured Raoul. "Are you all right?"

She forced a smile, nodded. It did not matter; this Mr. Y was a simple businessman, and probably unable to tell her singing from any other soprano's. And the money…even if they weren't, as she suspected, in some financial trouble, it was still a substantial amount. And a good excuse to go on vacation.

Remembering her son, Christine turned and smiled at Gustave. "Do you want to show us this toy of yours?"

Gustave nodded and ran back up the stairs. In seconds he was back, hoisting a little mechanical band. Each little member was tiny, barely the length of Christine's biggest finger, yet minutely decorated, down to individual uniforms and instruments. When Gustave pressed the head of the conductor the entire band started to play a cheerful marching tune.

"Isn't it wonderful?" exclaimed Gustave. "A little band!"

Christine kissed the top of Gustave's head. "It is wonderful, dear. Do you want to pack it and bring it with you to Coney Island?"

He nodded.

"Gustave…" said Raoul, "have you started packing at all?"

Gustave pouted, then shook his head. Raoul held back a chuckle, but knew his son had seen his amusement. He swatted the boy's backside, chiding him, "Go pack, young man! We leave in a day!"

"You ought to as well," reminded Christine, ascending the stairs after her son. "I believe it is your clothing scattered all over our bed."

Raoul grinned. "Ah well. Like father, like son." He grinned up at Gustave.

He followed after her, offering a hand to her. She took it, smiled mysteriously when he kissed it, and followed him to their bedroom to pack…among other amusements.

* * *

This part, henceforth, will be my talking/ranting section, in which I will comment (snarkily, most likely) on my story or say random facts, tidbits, what-have-you.

At the moment, nothing much to say. Slow, huh? Hey, you got a bit of Erik in here. :)

Hmm, I do find it odd that FanFiction says I've gotten no hits or visitors on this story when two people have already reviewed. They must have telepathically read my story or something.

Oh yeah, anyone want to correct me on the use of French last names? Is it de Chagnys or Chagnys? I think I've been using them interchangeably, and possibly offending the hell out of French readers, ha ha ha.


	3. Chapter 3

Another chapter, as promised, and much longer, too. But sadly, no Erik.

Funny thought - I've been watching old _The Phantom of the Opera_ movies (got through 1925, 1943, 1962, 1987, 1990, and (obviously) 2004, almost done with 1989), and two of them involve the Phantom disfiguring himself with acid.

So of course, one of the classes I had today is Chemistry Lab. And of course, my biggest fear during the lab is somehow pouring acid all over my own face. Despite the fact that the only thing I was working with was water.

Chapter 3

The trip to America took a little more than a week. Raoul had booked a first class cabin on an ocean liner, meaning finer amenities and rooms than the lower classes would ever see in their lifetime. However, anything after a chateau in France would seem ragged in comparison, and their room was no exception. But when Gustave voiced a complaint his mother scolded him, then consoled him with stories of what they would do once they reached Coney Island. It was better in one aspect, however. Christine had never gone on a ship before and had heard many horror stories of seasickness and vomiting. But the ship was quite smooth, the low rumbling of the motors providing a soothing background noise that often lulled her to sleep.

One evening Christine took a stroll on the promenade deck. The upper classes had their own separate walking space, away from the dirty masses of the poor (or so Raoul liked to say). This meant more space, and since it was night, the deck was almost empty of people. She was wearing only a light day dress, thinner than her usual fashion. She tightened her shawl around her as the chill night air descended upon her.

They were only two days from Coney Island. She had been rehearsing endlessly all throughout the weeks before their journey with various operettas and songs, and was assured that her voice was as perfect as it would ever be. There was a certain maturity and depth to it that hadn't been there before. It was only natural, for while her voice was quite good when she was young, it had been nowhere near finished developing – but she only hoped that listeners would not be disappointed by the changes. The thought sent a little shiver of nervousness down her back.

Somehow, though, it didn't seem like fear of disappointment was the only thing bothering her. The entire arrangement, she mused, was strange. The request from a Mr. Y to sing at Coney Island, for example – why, the man owned an entire amusement park; surely he could afford to come to France and ask for a private performance, if he so wished. Of course, she thought cynically, he might also want to make money – hence having her sing in front of an audience. Quite likely he owned the concert hall and would make thousands off advertising the 'Soprano of the Century' – back after ten years!

More worrying, though, was the entire lack of information about the man who had sent for them. Not even a name… just a pseudonym. And though Raoul had gotten plenty of information for her, she now realized that none really pertained to the personal characteristics of the man. They were all about his business ("he set it up in 1883, I was told, and expanded it to what it is now"), his attractions, ("a freak show, rides, carnival, and even vaudeville, singing, dancing, that sort of thing…") – things easily attained through legal papers and such. Nothing on the man's age, appearance, habits…

Well, it's too late to turn back now, she thought to herself, sighing. And even if they could, it would crush Raoul and Gustave. Inwardly, Christine suspected that this was much more than a vacation. Raoul had looked too…relieved… when she had agreed to go. He had looked almost as if his life depended on it – like he had down in the lake of the Opera Populaire –

No! She pushed the thought away. Enough of that. Done was done.

Back to Raoul. It had been a large amount of money…which made Christine suspect that there was much, much more to their troubles than Raoul had been telling her. That thought made her sigh once more. Dear Raoul, still the same charming young man he had been when they met at the opera house. Still trying to protect her from the realities of life. But she was a grown woman now, a wife and mother and yes, even an opera star. She could form her own decisions now.

So lost was she in her thoughts that she did not hear Raoul come up behind her; she cried out slightly when he rested a hand on her arm.

"I'm sorry, Christine, did I frighten you?" he exclaimed at her start.

She laughed nervously. "A little, Raoul."

He tucked a stray curl behind her ear. "Always with your head in the clouds…"

She knew now was the right moment. She had merely to say that, no, she had not been daydreaming her time away, she had been thinking of them, of their troubles, and that she needed to know the real reasons behind this trip to Coney Island.

But she looked up at Raoul's worried, trusting face, and knew she couldn't do it. Not now, not when he looked so relaxed.

So she plastered on a sheepish smile and merely said, "Yes, Raoul. Just watching the sea…"

"It is beautiful, is it not?"

"Yes…very beautiful."

* * *

All the passengers crowded to the top of the ship, shoving each other for the best view, as they came into the Iron Pier of Coney Island. Raoul, gripping Christine and Gustave, managed to politely push his way to the front. They had almost missed the Statue of Liberty; they were not going to miss the docking into Coney Island.

As soon as the ship stopped a band struck up a tune, one quite familiar to the de Chagny family.

"Mother!" cried Gustave. "It's the song my toy plays! The one I got in the letter!"

"Yes, we know, dear," sighed Christine. Gustave had spent hours playing with it, to the point where his parents had been sick of the song and Raoul had started muttering threats about hurling it into the sea, though only to his wife. The real band, while entertaining, was no less of an annoyance.

The port they stopped at was more crowded than any place Christine had ever seen – more than in Calais, more so, it seemed, than in the streets of Paris. And after spending much of her time in an isolated home outside of the city, it was absolutely terrifying. And the influx of reporters did not help matters.

They had no sooner stepped off the landing when they had surrounded her. Even when she was performing, Christine had disliked the crowds of admirers, begging for a touch, a smile, thrusting flowers at her; now, almost crushed by passengers exiting in one direction and reporters trying to interview her in the other, she was beginning to feel nauseous.

"Christine Daae!" one shouted, the name disorienting her – she had not been called by her maiden name in years. She mustered up her English and responded, "Yes?"

"How does it feel to be on American soil?"

Before she could answer another man had shoved the first reporter aside and was screaming his question into her face. "Why are you choosing to perform now?"

"And why here?" another took the opportunity to shout, somewhere at her left elbow.

She had an answer ready for both questions, but they moved out of her line of vision before she could get the words formed, to be replaced by what seemed like a dozen others.

"When and where will you be performing?"

"Is it true your husband and son are here?"

"Who asked you to come here?"

"Here now!"

And Raoul came shoving his way through, one arm gripping Gustave, the other encircling Christine's waist. "Come on, now, out of the way!" he snarled, pushing his way through the crowd.

"Christine Daae!"

"It's Madame de Chagny, sir!" Raoul shouted over his shoulder. Between his cursing and rather fierce manhandling, the small family managed to leave behind the reporters to engulf their next victim.

Once on a slightly less crowded street (the term was an overstatement, for the streets of Coney Island were as tightly packed as the ports), Raoul whispered, "Are you all right, Christine?"

She nodded. "I have never seen so many people." She gazed around her. "And the buildings…"

Skyscrapers towered above them; the streets were choked with people and motorcars. Paris seemed quite primitive in comparison, but also…cleaner. There was a great lack of trees, and the skies and surroundings seemed permanently ingrained with dust.

"I suppose we should try and hail a ride," said Raoul hesitantly. He lifted an arm, obviously unsure of what he was doing. But he was saved as a carriage pulled up, one that made all three gasp. It was made entirely out of glass – windows, rims, wheels, and seats. Sitting atop were three figures who stepped out, bowing low.

"You are Christine Daae," murmured the woman; she was beautiful in a thin, angular way, and there was something almost birdlike in her movements and the tilt of her head; yet her face was ivory-white, her eyes a dark contrast, sunken in her head. So fascinated was Christine by her that it took her a moment to realize that the last was not a question.

"Yes, I am," she said, feeling the English words clog in her throat. She wondered if she could let Raoul – or better yet, Gustave, who had picked up the language as if born to it – speak for her the rest of the time.

"I am Miss Fleck," the bird woman said, voice like that of a high laugh – carefree and innocent.

The man next to her made them goggle even more, for not only was he bulging with muscles, but every inch of that colossal flesh was covered with tattoos. Christine felt a sudden need to pull Gustave back; the man looked as if one wrong move could crush the boy beneath him. "And I am Squelch," he said, voice harsh as boulders grinding against one another.

The last man seemed almost ordinary by comparison. "Dr. Gangle," he introduced himself briefly. He pointed to the carriage. "And this is your ride to…Phantasma."

For a moment they could only gawk. Raoul was the first to recover. "Mr. Y sent you, did he?"

"Yes," trilled Fleck, "he has a room for you ready at his hotel. Everything is prepared."

Raoul and Christine exchanged a glance, still not sure of whether to trust these strange people. Gustave had no hesitation, though. He was already pulling free of Raoul's restraining arm and leaping into the carriage.

"It's beautiful!" he shouted, and they had the odd view of being able to see him even though he was, technically, inside something. "Mother, Father, may we go?"

Christine could only shrug. What harm would it do? And the three were the only ones who had offered to help them, or even knew where to go, for that matter. She followed her son, glancing back at her husband. Raoul sighed and gave in, and the couple climbed in after their son. The three helpers sat at the front and led them off.

* * *

The hotel room was more of a suite, and quite possibly the largest in the entire building. It was situated at the very top of the hotel, which itself was more of a tower than a building. Whoever had designed it certainly had avant-garde taste – it was not gaudily decorated, as were the buildings in France, but simplistic and sleek: a sheer plane of metal and stone and glass, almost, rising to the sky. The height of their suite, though, made them all grateful for the newly installed elevators, though all three were also apprehensive about stepping into what seemed like a small box speeding up several dozen stories. Apart from the spacious bedroom and the magnificent view of Coney Island, there was a very good bathroom furnished with the best and newest in running water systems.

"It's beautiful!" Christine swirled around the room, allowing her dress to billow around her. "Isn't it lovely, Raoul?"

"The view is certainly quite a sight," conceded her husband, opening the window to step out the balcony. "Why, you can see the entire island from here. Gustave," he beckoned the boy over, "come over here." He pointed out a large wheel in the distance. "You see that? That belongs to Phantasma."

"Wow," whispered Gustave. "What is that?"

"I am told it is called a Ferris wheel. You ride on it. And that," now pointing out a rickety wooden structure on which small moving cars were barely discernible, "is a rollercoaster, I think. A frightening but exhilarating experience, from what I have heard." He maneuvered the boy to the right. "And those?

"Beaches!" Gustave exclaimed. "Are we going to go there, Father? Are you going to teach me to swim?"

"Of course." It was high time for Gustave to lose his fear of the water, a fear that was absolutely unexplainable to Raoul, who at age fourteen had gone running into the cold sea to retrieve a scarf for his future wife. "But perhaps another day. We'll spend tomorrow exploring Phantasma, shall we?"

Gustave nodded, eyes still fixed on the sandy beaches. Raoul guided him back in. Christine had their suitcases on the floor, and she murmured, "Gustave, unpack your toys, all right?" She went out to the balcony, shading her eyes from the sun. "Raoul…is that a concert hall?"

He joined her. "I think it is." He smiled. "Not such a shabby place, is it? If this Mr. Y can build a concert hall…"

She smiled. "I don't think many would go there, though. You know what they say about uncultured Americans…"

"I am sure none would want to miss the 'Soprano of the Century'," was his answer. He kissed her cheek.

"Mother!" Christine turned away from the balcony and saw Gustave, seated at the piano with a great air of excitement. "Did you bring my music sheets?" asked the boy.

Christine's face fell. "Oh, no, Gustave. I'm sorry, I didn't. I did not think there would be any instruments in our room." She opened up her own suitcase, pulling out her clothing. "And besides, you'll have no time to write any of your music. There is far too much to see here for you to spend all day cooped up here."

Gustave fiddled with a toy car. Christine sighed. "Finish unpacking Gustave, and we'll go down to the restaurant to see what American food is like. Shall we?"

He pouted for a moment. Christine bent down imitated his look, holding it out as long as he and ignoring Raoul's snicker. Finally Gustave relented, laughing at his mother's childish expression.

"There now," she said with great satisfaction. "There will be plenty to do while we are here, Gustave. You won't be thinking of your music for some time."

"Yes, Mother." He pulled out his set of toy soldiers, aligning them in a neat pattern against the foot of the bed. "I heard American food is not as good as what we have."

"So have I," muttered Raoul. Christine only shrugged and said, "We cannot know until we try." She pushed aside the rest of her suitcases, resolving to unpack later. The trip and the stress of dealing with a new environment had made her quite hungry.

"Shall we go down?" asked Raoul, catching his wife's eye.

"Yes!" Gustave skipped on ahead, opening the door for his more stately parents. As they went down they passed many other people, most of them couples or families. Gustave couldn't help comparing. He had heard so many things about America – that they were the land of the free, that they had fought an entire war with France's long time enemy, Britain, just to be free, that they were getting bigger and richer than everyone else – and he half expected to see bright shining angels walking down the corridors. But the Americans looked no different than all the people in France. Except they were speaking English, much faster than he could pick up at times. The language sounded harsh compared to French, he thought.

He glanced behind at his parents and reaffirmed the thought. His parents were much better looking than all the other couples, he thought. His father looked especially proud and handsome, and his mother was probably the most beautiful lady in the hotel.

So he skipped on ahead to the end of the corridor, laughing and waving at his much slower parents.

* * *

American food, Christine thought later, was certainly…filling. Delicious, almost as good as the meals their chef had prepared…but quite heavy in the stomach.

Raoul had retired to one of the hotel drawing rooms, perhaps to talk to the other men there. She, however, did not feel her English quite suitable to converse with the other women, and so had joined Gustave back in their room. The boy himself had fallen asleep soon after their arrival, and had been put to the small bed in the room adjoining the main one.

Christine had changed into a lacy white gown, pulling her dark brown hair back from her face. Another note had been delivered to them, in the same beautiful handwriting, stating – almost commanding – that she perform at the Phantasma concert hall in three day's time. And he had sent the aria, demanding that she practice it.

She certainly should try it. The notes were long and some of the most difficult she had encountered. The passion and emotion was also evident in every measure, but the song itself seemed almost written for her voice. Christine also had to wonder if the mysterious benefactor had composed the song and music himself – almost everything was handwritten in the same fine cursive she had seen on the letter. On the last page, the bars were drawn in neatly by hand, as if the man had been struck by inspiration at some point and had had no time to grab another paper.

She closed the door to Gustave's room and closed the balcony window. She stood straight, remembering her posture taught so long ago, and began to sing.

* * *

Random thought - what _language_ are the people speaking in _Love Never Dies_? (And if anyone tells me English, I will smack them through cyberspace.)

I mean: since _The Phantom of the Opera_ takes place in France, we can assume everyone there is speaking in French that just happens to be translated into English (or Spanish, or Japanese, or whatever) for the audience, right? So...what are they speaking in the sequel? English? French?

Gah, nevermind. For my story, assume everyone is speaking French unless they are talking to an American or something, in which case, assume English. Not that anyone other than me cares, anyway...

Oh yes, and you WILL get Erik in the next chapter. Just in case anyone's interest is starting to flag.


	4. Chapter 4

So...

Due to my own gosh darned forgetfulness, I left the power cord to my laptop in my dorm. So here I am, at home, unable to use my laptop.

So I am quite, quite bored.

I will hence relieve my boredom by putting up a new chapter. The excitement.

Yes, there is Erik.

Chapter 4

He was falling into old habits.

For ten years he had forced himself to forget. And while the pain was raw and ever-present the first days, the work he put himself through helped him to put it aside, at least for a few hours. A few days. A few weeks. Then he would encounter something – a certain perfume, a brush of a skirt, a particular voice – and everything would come swirling back. And so it went on.

He had smuggled himself on a ship to America from Calais, and spent the week squirreled away in the cargo hold. He had only ventured up (and only cloaked under forgiving night) to listen to the sailors speak, for while his English was flawless, his use of American slang was not. It had not mattered in the end – he despised speaking the way the lower classes did, and his cold manner ultimately pushed others away and gave him an aloof manner which he only cultivated. And his shadowing had only served as a reminder of her, every creak of ropes and sway of the ship throwing him back to his days watching from the flies of the opera house.

Arriving at New York City, he had made his own way, with no help from anybody. He had relied on his skills as a magician, ventriloquist and entertainer to get first food and clothing, then shelter. The truly desperate days – the days when he had put himself on display – he chose to forget. Only later did he buy a small sideshow from a businessman and expand it into Phantasma. And while the work had certainly been difficult, far more so than his previous occupation (if one could call it that) of blackmailing managers, it had, once again, kept his mind away from the past.

Which was for the better. One night he had dared to lay fingers on a piano, when the demands of scheduling and directing a performance, not to mention the innumerable jobs of watching over an entire amusement park, had lessened considerably. Instantly he had been assailed by memories – of large brown eyes against pale skin watching him, of cool fingers against his face, of a scent that was a mixture of ballet talc and flowers – and then he had slammed down the lid of the piano and walked away in a daze, only coming out of it hours later to find his room in complete shambles and with no memory of how it had occurred.

He had learned that it was better to stay away from music.

Ten years. Ten years. It seemed so much longer. He had hoped – wished – that the pain would fade with time – wasn't that what all the greatest philosophers said, that time heals all wounds? But he was most likely not what they were thinking of when referring to wounds…

And as every year passed it seemed the pain only increased, until now he was at a feverish state, aching just to see her, to hear her soft voice. The days had been a blur between reality and memory, when seeing some mane of curly brown hair, or watching a dancer pass, had brought him jerking away from the present. Nights had been arguably worse as he had tossed between fitful nightmares and a hopeless yearning for a rest from her.

And every time it happened, the coldly logical part of his mind would hiss that she had chosen the Vicomte – not him, and that it was he who had chosen to let her go. Her freedom for a kiss. At the time, it had seemed only fair. She had given him more than he had ever dreamed he would have, for deep down he had known that forcing her into marriage would dispel any hope of love. That little truthful side knew that, should he have her as his wife, he, for all Christine's fears of becoming prey to his lust for flesh, would have been content to wake at her side, to have her look at him one day without flinching…for one touch, one light kiss…

But any further thoughts were driven from his mind by the heavenly sound of Christine singing. He would close his eyes if it wouldn't block out the sight of her, standing only a few feet from him. Her back was to him, and even if she should turn to the balcony, he was agile enough to slip behind her curtains and make his way from the rooftops back to his own home.

But of course, she did not. Which meant he could listen in peace. Once she fidgeted, and he made to leap out of sight, but she did not turn all the way – just enough to see her profile, which had remained almost unchanged. She had grown older, of course, from the image he held of her in his mind. There were new lines around her face, but also a depth and maturity to her eyes and stance that he had only caught glimpses in the time he had been with her.

Twice she changed position slightly, pacing when she did not hit the proper note, but she was so engrossed in his aria – and he had written it himself, braving the memories and the pain for her – that she did not notice him, standing under the moonlit sky, watching. After several abortive attempts, she straightened her posture, lifting her chin almost defiantly, and started to sing. And it was not the voice he had been hearing in his dreams for the last ten years. It was more. It was richer and more vibrant, full of emotions he had not thought would be in the song but which melded perfectly with the libretto. It was greater than anything he had imagined.

When she was finished both were left breathless. He had not thought he could feel this deeply ever again. And yet… there was an exultant pounding in his chest. Surely she could not have sung the aria without knowing – without feeling – the buried emotions within her. Surely she would accept him this time, would come to him when he finally revealed himself, and would choose to stay.

Then Christine moved towards the window, eyes fixed on the crescent moon hanging above her, and Erik was forced to move out of sight.

Perhaps most painful was the tiny insistent voice that said that not only had he released her, he had been the one to flee from her as well.

But who wouldn't, he retorted to that annoying little prick against his mind. Who wouldn't run, knowing that the person they loved was to wake up next to the one person they feared most? It had been shame and fear driving him that night.

Ten years ago, he had hidden away in a tunnel while the denizens of the opera house wrecked his home. There had been moments when they came quite close to finding him, and he would have welcomed their hatred, hoping that their bloodlust would give him a way to leave the agony of this world. But they had not, and eventually they had appeased their anger enough and journeyed out of his home.

Even then he had not ventured out, staying hidden away, without food or water, for three days, locked in some dark portion of his mind. It had been Madame Giry who had braved his traps to try and find him, and who had hustled him off to some abandoned cottage outside Paris. He wondered briefly just how she had done that – he couldn't recall anything after Christine had left and he had made his escape. But he didn't particularly care to know, anyway. He only regretted not thanking the ballet mistress for her help and endless patience in dealing with him over the years. Certainly, he had not paid back her trust.

He had recovered in that hidden cottage, aided by Madame Giry, who brought him food, clothing, and most importantly, his mask. Soon he had ventured out, only to find a newspaper announcing in bold letters the upcoming marriage of the Vicomte de Chagny to Christine Daae.

He had stolen the paper from its reader and torn out the advertisement, reading and memorizing it in a fit of self-flagellation. Even when the rest of the paper had been fed to his fire, that tiny slip remained on the crude workbench he called a table, taunting him with his shattered dreams. And he had counted down each day, watching the sun slip down the horizon and knowing that every time it brought Christine one step closer to being a wife, and one step further from him. The pain of it – for deep down he had hoped that Christine might, if not marry him, then at least give up the engagement to the pompous Vicomte – had been almost as sharp as the night she had chosen to leave him.

And then, she had come to him, the night before she was to be wed.

He had heard footsteps outside and thought that it was Madame Giry, on her increasingly rarer trips to see him, and he had turned and said…he no longer recalled…but he had said something, and had felt the words dry on his tongue when he saw Christine standing in the doorway, the moonlight shining against the outline of her body and the candlelight illuminating her face.

She had looked as if she had just escaped from her dressing room, just as she had when he had brought her down to his lair and set into place the catastrophic events that had led him here. She had only a traveling cloak on, though it looked hastily thrown on and was parted to reveal her white nightgown. Her hair, too, had been unbound, lying in messy curls around her shoulders; they had contrasted with her pale and (as he was to find out soon enough) icy cold skin.

"Christine…"

She had shuddered at his breathless whisper, and he had stepped back, reining back his desire and the aching hope that she had changed her mind. Instead, he had snapped at her,

"What are you doing here?"

She started at the change in tone, mouth parted slightly as she fought for composure. It had not been enough, for her words had tumbled out almost too fast for him to hear: "I had to see you."

Crushing the somehow-still-living hope, he had retorted, "See me? And why do you wish to see me, Christine? You fled from me, or do you not recall the events in my domain?" He had the satisfaction of seeing pain flash across her face.

"No," she had whispered, "I only-"

"Or is this another trap, Christine?" he had continued. "Has your precious fiancé set up some other plan to capture me and make sure I will not disrupt his wedding as he did mine?"

"No, Raoul is not-"

"Or do you merely wish to gaze once more upon this visage-" and here he had stabbed a finger at his own deformity, "-and know that you are safe from it?" He had torn off the mask, wanting to see her scream from fear once more and run her out of his life –

She had screamed then, but not from fright: "Erik, I wanted – needed – to see you – just you!"

A pause. He grappled with this utterly foreign concept – nobody had ever wished to see him except perhaps to gawk at the deformity that ran down the right side of his face. He was about to shout this at her, but the utterly vulnerable, open expression on her face had stopped him. Still, he could not bear to cause her pain…so he had only asked, "How do you know my name?"

"Madame Giry," she had answered.

He had turned his back on her then, angered by the woman's second betrayal. "And I suppose she showed you how to reach me, too, did she?"

"No," Christine had murmured, "I…followed."

He had spun around once more, trying to hide his surprise. The Christine he had known would not have been so… active. She would have asked, perhaps, for information, and when she had failed, would have gone home to her Vicomte's mansion and sobbed her eyes out. He examined her further and saw a difference in her large eyes – a new maturity and sense of self that had not been there before – that he had not seen until she had come walking purposefully up to him and kissed him…

Christine swallowed, playing with her cloak, a habit she had acquired as a child and one she had never quite been able to rid herself of. "I had to see you, Erik…I'm getting married tomorrow…"

He hadn't been able to help himself from snapping, "Really? The Vicomte didn't have you at the altar as soon as you were free?"

She shook her head, curls bobbing. "No…I asked to wait…" She paused, still searching for words. "Erik… that night…after Don Juan Triumphant…"

He sagged with the memory of it, at his utterly delusional attempt to make her his, at the violence and destruction he had wrought in his fury. Never again, he vowed…and it seemed true, for the only person capable of throwing him into such jealous, obsessive rage, was to be married in the morning. Regardless if she stood here before him.

"You need not fear me, Christine, not anymore," he had said, thinking that this was the only reason for seeking him out. "I will not attempt any disruption. I let you go…"

He heard the creak of wooden floorboards and felt her draw nearer. "Erik, it because of that that I came here to see you," she murmured. "I came…I'm not sure why I came…" She paused once again. "Erik…it was all so fast… everything after Don Juan Triumphant…I didn't know what to do…you were shouting at me, and you had Raoul captured…I was so confused…"

"So you wish me to help sort out your complex feelings, Christine?" he had asked sarcastically, to mask the wrenching twist in his stomach at her words, her helplessness.

"I would have stayed, Erik!" she cried out. "I meant to have stayed! I was ready to stay! With you! Why…why…"

He wheeled around at her words. "Stayed, Christine?" he said. "Stayed, why? Because I'm such a wonder to stare at?" He snorted. "Do not try to assuage your own conscience." He stopped facing her, speaking to the wall. "We both know what that kiss was. Just a manipulative gesture on your part." Silence. He added quietly, "Well, it worked."

She dropped her glance. "I will not deny it. I did not do any of what I did out of love."

"Then explain why you think you would have chosen to stay. Making a martyr out of yourself, Christine?"

She shook her head. "You were my Angel…you have always been there for me…and I feel so…strange and alone without you…" She wrapped her arms around herself. "Erik…I miss you. Raoul doesn't let me leave his home… and he always has men looking after me when I do…"

"Does he, now?" he had said, wanting to hear more of the hated Vicomte de Chagny's faults.

"Yes… and I do not think he even wants me to perform…"

"Not perform?" he hissed. "What does he wish, then? To keep you caged like some songbird?" He had whirled about to fully face her now, advancing on her almost. Her voice was like none other he had ever heard; it had to be heard, if for no other reason than so he could listen to it while he lived the rest of his life alone.

"He says it is not good to have a wife sing in front of an audience," she whispered, holding her ground even while he drew nearer.

He was delightfully close to her, staring into her wide eyes, breathing in her aroma. A part of him hissed to back away before it was too late, but for once his body was not obeying his mind. "I would never do that, Christine," he told her fiercely. "Your voice is something the world should hear." He was breathing too quickly, and so was she; both fought to keep on this much safer subject. "I have trained you for no less. Your voice comes from the angels."

And she was not backing away, she was staring at him, and she said, "You would know."

"I am no angel, Christine." He sighed. "As you would know."

She replied, "Neither am I." She reached for his face and touched the deformed side. He had forgotten that he had exposed himself to her, and instinct drove his hand up to catch her wrist in an iron grip. She gasped at the sudden movement and he released her just as quickly, backing away and clutching for his mask in his other hand.

"My apologies-" He fumbled to replace the mask, cursing his unexpected clumsiness.

"No, Erik, don't…" This time it was she who grasped her wrist, thought it was a far gentler grip than the one he had given her. "I don't fear your face…"

"Really?" he mocked her, pulling both of them into the light. "Look at this, Christine, and tell me you do not fear me!"

Her eyes had roved over his face and she had said, quite calmly, "It was your anger I feared, Erik…not your face." She moved her hand up to his cheek and stroked the hideous scars, tracing each one down, caressing the exposed skull and the wisps of hair. "But after everything that has happened…I do not fear even that, Erik, not anymore." And there was no terror in her eyes now; there was only an emotion he had thought he might never see on any woman viewing his face, pure and gentle acceptance. "I do not fear you."

He had shuddered under her touch, not stopping her, trying to hold back any response, the completely foreign impulse to grab her hand and hold it, just for a little while. "Christine…" Her warm fingertips had gone to his lips, stopping there.

He didn't know what made him do it; he moved forward and then he was kissing her. There was only a single burst of pleasure before he felt her stiffen, and then he tore himself away, gasping like a boy who had done some terrible wrong…

She cried out something and then she had had her small hands around his coat and was pulling herself forward to kiss him once more. One tiny still-logical part of his mind had cried at him to stop this madness – but it had been too late for backward glances. He had grabbed Christine and felt her draw closer to him, clutching at him with a mad tenacity he had never experienced, and he had only enough thought to move them both to the bed.

When it was over, he had clung to her like a little child and cried at the gift he had received, one he had never even dreamed would be given to him. No matter his declarations, he would have been content to have Christine as his wife and to, maybe, lie beside her and sleep next to her.

And when he was finished, Christine had wiped the tears away and kissed every part of his face, even the deformity, had touched them with the same tenderness she had touched the rest of him, and then made love to him again. And if he had thought it was a gift before, then the second time proved him wrong. The first time had been quick and fumbling, neither of them having any experience, each too eager to have one another. This was slow, gentle, an exploration of each other…and they had continued what felt like all night, he feeling as if he could never have enough of her and she moving as if she felt the same.

In the morning he had awoken when he had felt Christine touching his face once more. She had an almost-morbid fascination with his face, he had thought to himself, catching at her hand once more. She had smiled sleepily at him and whispered that she loved him, then curled next to him and closed her eyes, contented as a cat…

But he was a different story. As soon as those words had been spoken he had awoken from the spell Christine had so skillfully woven. So he had dressed and ran from her, even though the act of leaving – this time on his own end – had ripped into him more painfully than the choice to let her go.

For as soon as she had said those words he had felt a heavy shame drape itself over his shoulders. Christine, naïve Christine, had come to him for advice, reconciliation perhaps with her beloved Angel of Music – had she not said this herself? – and instead been seduced into bedding with him – and on the night before her wedding, of all dates… and he knew that her whispered declarations of love, of acceptance, would disappear as soon as he unleashed his fearsome, unpredictable temper on her…

And even in the unlikely chance that she was true…what life was there for her? To be on the run with a fugitive? To live in the dank confines of the Opera Populaire once more? To be the scandal-ridden fiancée of the Vicomte de Chagny who had chosen to run away with a murderer?

No. Christine, for her purity, her love, her devotion, had deserved nothing less than (and how he hated to admit this) nobility, to be surrounded by riches and waited on hand and foot all her life. She deserved a young, wealthy, and handsome husband. So before she could awake, before he could hear her sweet denials and watch her face color with shame at her act, he had run.

Ten years had not allowed him to forgive or forget his mistakes and had driven him in endless circles questioning his own motives. He had let her go; he had chosen to run away.

But what did she feel? For one blissful second he had felt happiness so bright and new it had been a pain in his chest. For one second, one moment, one hour…one night…she had loved him. And though he had run away he had ached for that love ever since. One taste was not enough, it was never enough for him. He wanted it all.

What did she feel?

Did it matter? one part questioned. She had loved him regardless of his deeds at the Opera Populaire. She had come to him; she had not been dragged down, a prisoner, and forced into a mock wedding that would have led… he did not want to think of it.

And that was what had finally prompted the letter, one he had dashed off and sent before second thoughts could plague him. This maddening hope that he could revive her love through the only weapon he had – his music. But how powerful a weapon it was…what did the Vicomte have that could match his skills at music?

The curtain brushed at his mask, and he grimaced. Of course. A handsome, unmarred face. A fortune (though his skimming of French society journals had told him that money was much reduced). A life in the sun.

And that was what the last ten years had been devoted to. Working his way as a respectable businessman (he almost sneered at the title – he had been a "businessman" of a sort back in Paris, though not of the most reputable kind) so that he may, if not show his own face in public, at least allow Christine a few moments in the light…

Christine turned suddenly, as if hearing something. Erik jerked back, though he could not tear his eyes from her slender figure.

Then, and to Erik's utter horror, there ran a boy. A beautiful, light-haired boy…

He had forgotten…

A sudden image of the Vicomte and Christine on their honeymoon sent a bolt of anger rushing through him. He hated that child. He hated his smooth skin and the two bright eyes so different from Erik's own mismatched set; hated the silky blonde hair and the utter innocence with which the boy looked around…

Very carefully he opened the balcony door, listening.

"…a nightmare, Mother!"

"Oh, Gustave, what was it?"

Christine's voice was so soft, her gaze so tender; when she reached down and smoothed the boy's hair back (Gustave, named for her father, no doubt), Erik felt a furious jealousy course through him.

"I dreamt…I dreamt…that there was a monster…"

"A monster?"

"In the water! It grabbed me, Mother…it was trying to drown me!"

And Christine took the boy and cradled him, not knowing that she was making the very bile rise in Erik's throat. He couldn't bear one second more of staring at her son, at this tangible proof of Christine's marriage, at a child he knew he could never give Christine. He leaped up onto the rooftops and disappeared into the shadows.

"What is that, Mother?" Gustave asked, fingering the sheets. He had pulled away as quick as possible from Christine's loving grasp. He was ten years old, after all, and far too old for hugs from his mother.

She smiled at him. "It's the aria I am to sing."

"Can I see?"

She handed the sheets to him and watched his eyes travel over every note. It was like an awakening to him. He had never dreamed someone could think of such complex, yet such stirring melodies, ones that both counterpointed and fit the lyrics so elegantly. "It's…beautiful," he finally murmured.

"It is, but it is also terribly difficult to sing," his mother replied.

"I want to be able to write like this!" he declared, handing back the music. "Mother, who wrote it?"

"I'm not sure…Mr. Y sent it to us."

"Can I ask him then?"

She laughed. "I don't think so, Gustave. We haven't seen Mr. Y at all, even if he's the one who invited us." She ruffled his hair. "But who knows? Maybe he will take a liking to you. He's obviously a man of high taste." Gustave struggled away, smacking the balcony door and making it rattle.

"Oh, is that where the draft was coming from?" murmured his mother, rushing to the door. She paused in the midst of closing it, frowning. "Gustave, were you playing out here?"

"No, Mother."

She held up the curtain. "Strange. I thought I would have noticed this."

There was a large rip down the bottom half of the curtain.

She set it aside, brow still furrowed. "I'll have Raoul ask for a new pair, then." But she still stared at it, unable to explain her sudden foreboding.

* * *

And there we have it. "Beneath a Moonless Sky". Only without singing. Or music.

And what is this? A non-italicized flashback of sorts? Oh my, the rules I am breaking.

And no dialogue between Erik and Christine? Gasp. Oh, the disappointment.

Ahem...anyway. Probably last time I will say this, but: review, if you please. Overwhelming praise, constructive criticism, death threats to go jump in a lake and die, I can take them all. But preferably less of the third, hm?


	5. Chapter 5

We got some new readers! I have not been replying personally to reviews, but here's a little note saying 'Thank you!' to everyone who has reviewed, put me on alert, or favorited me. It gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling.

To anonymous reviewers, then:

**kiki**: I'm pretty sure you're one of my friends. Hi!

**CC**: He is! One thing I rather did not like was that Raoul was derailed into such a bad guy. It sort of lacks conflict. (Well, that and my dissatisfaction with Meg too. Though maybe giving her a tiny part in my story is not the best way to rectify things...oh well.) That's sort of how this story came about. And you prefer Erik and Christine? Wait...

Does NOBODY know who I ship in Phantom of the Opera?

Chapter 5

Morning came early to Coney Island; the sandy beaches were the first to be hit by the sun's rays, and remained bright and inviting for most of the day. But it was not there that the Chagny family went. They had decided to explore Phantasma.

And explore they did, for it was a maze of wonder and delight. There was an absolute crush of crowds – people everywhere, chattering at the top of their voices, circling from one attraction to another. In the bright sunlight every ride and amusement seemed to sparkle, calling out to them. And far in the distance was the tower of Luna Park, which at night would sparkle with a thousand lights.

"Mother! Look!" Gustave pointed excitedly at a ride – a gigantic Ferris wheel. "May I ride on it? May I?"

Christine shielded her eyes and gasped at the sheer height of it – the little cars seemed so small and slight, dangling along the very edge of the wheelk waving slightly in the wind. She murmured, "Oh my. It's so…large."

Raoul laughed, taking Gustave's shoulder. "It's perfectly safe, Christine! Come!" He took her hand. "Let's go on it! We came here to have fun!"

It was far less frightening than Christine had thought – the Ferris wheel moved at a leisurely pace up and down, though the slightest shakes and drops threatened to make her stomach roil. The family could barely hear one another speak: between the shrieks of the joints of the wheel, the gusts of the wind, which was so much stronger at this height than on the ground, and the mass of screams and cries and shrieks from the crowd below, no sound could be heard unless it were yelled. Gustave, however, was having the time of his life, laughing down at the people below.

"They're like ants, Father!" he exclaimed. He waved down to them. "Hello!" He slid to the other side of his seat. "Mother! Look at that one!" In the distance was a roller coaster, constructed entirely of wood and looking entirely unfinished – there was a massive amount of wooden beams all crisscrossing each other, looking more like a scaffold than a ride. Yet Christine and Raoul could see cars moving up and dropping down a stunning height, turning stunningly sharp curves and going sideways and even upside down. They could also hear the screams of the riders, a mix of terror and absolute thrill.

"Do you think I can go on it, too?" Gustave called over the wind and the creaking of the wheel.

Raoul shouted back, "I don't think so! It looks like you might fall right off it when it turns!" He laughed, ruffling his son's head to show it was a joke. "We'll look for something else!" he said loudly. "Something more appropriate!"

They came off, Christine feeling a little unsteady yet strangely exhilarated. The view from the top had been like none other – she had never been so high in her life, had never seen the vast expanse of the sea melding with the horizon, the sparkle of the sun on the waves, the entire park laid out before her. But she could not contemplate for long – her husband and son were already running ahead, Gustave having already caught sight of another potential ride.

When they got off the merry-go-round (a dizzying ride in which the passengers rode on gaily painted statues of horses and carriages and exotic animals), they settled at a table with some of the famous Coney Island hot dogs.

"I have never heard of this food," Christine said, examining the long sausage in its bun. "It certainly is an… interesting design."

Raoul, already munching on his, nudged her with a boyishly mischievous look on his face. "Does this 'design' remind you of anything?"

Christine slapped his arm. "Raoul! Not in front of Gustave!" Thankfully, the boy was quite distracted by the large bundle of fried potato sticks or whatever it was they were called.

Christine stared at her bun and groaned, unable to envision anything other than the images Raoul had conjured up. She opened her mouth and took a nibble.

Raoul grinned. "Why don't you suck on it instead?"

At which Christine promptly hurled her food at her husband instead.

After choosing, and eating, a decidedly _different_ kind of meal, the small family wandered around the park. There were an incredible number of other attractions besides rides – carnival games of all sorts, with the prizes being various small toys and stuffed animals; shows and performers wandering around and entertaining them; booths selling trinkets and decorations of all kinds; and food and snacks to be bought. For once Raoul stopped caring about money, and bought whatever his wife and son desired, enjoying the glee on their faces.

Towards evening, the Chagny family was feeling the effects of the long day. Christine was yawning, and Raoul was starting to drag his feet beside her. Only Gustave kept skipping on ahead, full of unsuppressed happiness. He would disappear into the crowd and pop out again at some other spot, pointing to a particular attraction he found interesting. This happened once more, waking his two parents up when he stayed away longer than usual.

"Gustave?" Christine called. "Gustave!"

"Gustave, come out now!" Raoul yelled next to her.

Their son's blonde head poked out from behind a pillar. "Mother, Father, look!" He grabbed their hands and dragged them around the corner to a magnificent tent. It was spread out for over fifty feet yet was completely enclosed, leaving the attractions inside a mystery to those outside.

"It's a freak show!" Gustave exclaimed, pointing to a brightly colored sign.

Christine frowned. "A freak show? Gustave…"

"Mother, I looked inside! It's amazing!" her son cried. He dragged at their hands once more. "Come on! You have to come see the Bird Woman?"

"The Bird Woman?" Raoul repeated in disbelief. The two followed their irrepressible son into the tent.

It was not a freak show Christine or Raoul had been expecting. At best they had expected the freaks to be sitting or standing along the sides, performing next to an owner or master, with crowds gathered around to gawk at them. In France there were still rumors of people, deformed, diseased, or merely different, who were even caged and put on display against their will, in restraints, perhaps. Raoul felt a small chill pass through him – he knew of a certain man who had once been subjected to this treatment.

But this show was wildly different. The freaks were walking around, as normally as any other person; they were practicing, talking to themselves, shouting to friends, even. In the middle was a vast space with a makeshift stage set in the center and seats surrounding the front, and on the stage itself, three performers.

"It's the Bird Woman!" Gustave shouted, pointing at the figure in the center.

Raoul blinked. "Christine, it's that woman who escorted us!"

Christine gaped. "You mean…Fleck?" They hurried to get seats, though most were filled, the audience watching the acrobatic feats with rapt attention. They only managed to get ones far in the back aisles.

It did not matter; the performance was so spectacular they could not tear their eyes away. The two side acrobats swung and flipped in midair and always managed to get a grip on the other trapeze, all while making it seem effortless. But Fleck commanded their attention from the start: she had the most difficult routines, using both trapeze and partners to execute her feats, sometimes only barely grabbing on to the handles of her swings. The audience – and the Chagnys – gasped and laughed and applauded as one, and when it was over, the three received a standing ovation.

"I've changed my mind about freak shows," Christine laughed after the viewing. "That was the highlight of today."

Gustave suddenly cried out, "Look, Mother!"

A group of girls were entering the stage, clad in bright feathery skirts.

"Oh, Mother, what are they doing?"

The girls started dancing and mincing about. The lead – a beautiful young redhead – suddenly whirled in amongst her sisters' great feathered fans.

"Bathing beauty, on the beach…" she sang.

"What a cutie! What a peach!" her fellow performers trilled.

"I took a little trip to Coney Island," the lead continued. "But I noticed something strange…" The others crowded around her, giggling. "There was no place to…change!"

The girls suddenly leaped on her, pulling off her clothing.

"Uh oh!" they shrieked.

Raoul's face suddenly went stiff.

"Oh dear God."

Christine whispered, "I don't think this is meant for children."

Gustave was merely puzzled. "Father, why are they taking off her-"

Christine grabbed her son's head and pulled him out. "Time to go, Gustave!" she cried, voice more high-pitched than she thought possible.

"But, Mother!"

"Now!"

* * *

"I've changed my mind about freak shows," Christine shivered once the family was outside.

Raoul laughed, though there was a tinge of nervousness to it. "You already said that, darling."

"I've changed it again. That was…" She shuddered once more.

Raoul smiled, taking her arm. "Perhaps we should return tomorrow." At the look on her face, he hastily added, "When they have a more…family-friendly show." A thought passed through his head. "You don't think that this is the area where you'll be performing, do you?"

She couldn't imagine herself performing on the same stage where…that had happened.. "Well, then it was good that we came," she commented. "I like to…know about the area where I am to perform."

Raoul pulled her closer, feeling a small shiver run down her. Nighttime at Coney Island was chilly, and Christine had neglected to bring a coat. "Perhaps that new concert building, then? I will be sure to get front row seats," he said.

She laughed. "Monsieur Raoul would not prefer the balcony seats, would he? Or perhaps even a private box? No concert building would be complete without one."

"And I'll be sure to buy roses – a bouquet this time." He smiled wistfully – he had always thrown down a single red rose to her at previous performances, and she had always been able to pick his from the dozens of flowers that had always littered the stage.

Christine tucked herself in Raoul's arm. Only a few more days before her performance, and strangely enough, Christine felt none of her usual nerves. She wondered briefly at it; for the few months she had performed after leaving the Opera Populaire, she had always felt an attack of nervous energy that nothing could assuage.

It was quickly growing darker; the families were hurrying towards the gates, though others – young couples, mostly, and single people, and groups of friends – were still entering. Just as it started to become too dark to see, lights came on all over the park.

"Electric lights," Raoul observed with wonder. "And all over the park too." It was true; Phantasma was so lit up it seemed to be daytime once more. "This Mr. Y is very ahead of his time – and must have a lot of money on his hands."

Christine nodded, staring at the quietly buzzing bulbs. Coney Island, she had heard, truly came alive at night, though it was also said with much nudging and winking. Came alive, she thought, in a way that likely not suitable for young children –

Suddenly she turned around. "Where's Gustave?" she whispered.

Raoul glanced around him as well. "He was next to me when we left the tent." But the boy was nowhere in sight.

"Gustave!" Christine broke from Raoul's grip. "Gustave! Gustave!" She raced back towards the tent.

"Christine! Wait!" Raoul ran after her and smashed into a group. They gasped and muttered discontentedly as he pushed around them, still yelling his wife's name.

"Christine! Stop!"

"Gustave! Gustave!"

* * *

Gustave had seen the Bird Woman, Fleck, take a sweeping bow that befitted her moniker, then scurry backstage. He had thought that the last he would see of her – and right now he couldn't believe it was she who had driven him and his father and mother to their hotel, and treated them like royalty. But then he had spotted her scurrying out of the sides of the tent, and heard another call her name.

"Fleck! Mr. Y wants to see you!"

Fleck had gasped in her high voice, "Of course! I'll be there!" then run off, stripping off her decorations and gear as she went. Gustave had broken away from his parents – just for a moment – to follow her.

He ran after her, seeing her lithe figure flit between the tent sheets. A small crowd – the next performers, no doubt, if one were to judge by their costumes – briefly separated him from her, but he spotted her just before she disappeared out of the tent, and followed.

It wasn't until she had left Phantasma altogether, through a circuitous route around the attractions, that he remembered his parents. They had to be worried about him, he thought with a pang of guilt. But glancing around, he also realized something else: he was completely and totally lost.

"Mother?" he whispered. Louder then, "Father!"

Nothing. He wandered amongst the people strolling along, bumping into them and muttering apologies. Yet he had never felt so alone, so small.

"Hello?" He ran up to a respectable looking man. "Sir, can you help-"

"Get away, urchin!" the man snapped, pushing him into a woman lugging a bag of groceries.

"Watch where you're going!" she shrieked, struggling to maintain her hold on the bag. Gustave backed away, whirling about in a futile attempt to find some familiar faces.

"Mother!" he finally cried. "Father!"

A hand fell on his shoulder and he screamed, turning and batting it off. To his great embarrassment, he found himself facing the very person he had been trying to pursue.

"Miss Fleck," he gasped, "Please…I'm lost, and I can't find my mother and father."

Fleck's eyes sparkled in the moonlight. "You are Miss Christine Daaé's child, aren't you?" she asked in her breathlessly high voice.

"I – I'm Christine and Raoul de Chagny's son," he stuttered.

She smiled enigmatically. "We have heard of you." She held out her hand. "Come. We will take you to someone who can help you."

He clasped her palm as if he were at sea and she a life preserver. She passed easily through the crowds, as ease on the ground as she had been in the air. Soon they had left behind the crush of people and were moving towards a building Gustave had seen only from a distance – a dark tower, forbidding and frightening.

As they drew closer, Gustave felt a quaver pass through him. He had hoped that they would be going elsewhere, for the building, so different, so set apart from the rest of Phantasma and even Coney Island itself, made him feel strange and alone. But when they were only a few feet from the door, he dared to ask Fleck, "Miss Fleck, who are you taking me to?"

"Mr. Y, of course," she told him. "We have heard him speak much about your mother. He will help you to find her."

"He knows my mother?" asked Gustave in wonder.

"He has spoken several times about her."

She opened the door and let him in, yet remained standing outside. Gustave shivered as the blast of cold air hit him; for some reason it was chillier inside than it was out.

"Go up the stairs until you reach the top," whispered Fleck.

Gustave turned sharply, eyes wide with fright. "Aren't you coming with me?"

"No, dear child. Mr. Y likes his privacy. None of us can go there without his permission." She watched him through unblinking eyes. "I will wait down here, if you like, until he is finished with you."

It was the best he could hope for. He took a gulping breath and started up the steps.

* * *

"Gustave! Gustave! Please, have you seen my son?" The man turned away from Christine with a grunt. She flung herself at another, a small family, crying the same question. They rushed away as if she were a madwoman.

"Gustave!" Her voice reached a scream. She ran through the crowd, heedless of the mess on her skirts, and bumped into another man. "Please, sir, have you seen-" She almost shrieked once more; she had grabbed the tattooed strongman.

"I'm sorry, Miss, can I help you?" the strongman asked.

She gasped, "My son, I need to find my son! Gustave – he's ten years old, blonde hair, wearing a striped shirt-"

The man's eyes widened imperceptibly. "I did see him. He was off with Miss Fleck. She was taking him to see Mr. Y."

"Mr. Y?" she whispered. Then, heedlessly, "Where is he? Take me to him!"

The man did not squirm, but she felt his muscles go hard with tension. "Miss, Mr. Y likes his privacy-"

"Please! You have to let me – I have to find my son! He has to see me – he knows who I am, he wrote me a letter asking me to perform, please tell him that!"

"A letter?" the strongman repeated – Squelch, the name came suddenly to her. He grabbed her arms. "Are you Miss Christine Daaé?"

"I – I am."

He took her hand, and for all the bulging muscle he showed, his grip was surprisingly gentle. "I will take you to Mr. Y, Miss Daaé. Follow me."

* * *

"Christine! Gustave!"

Raoul shoved through the crowd, finding himself before the tent. "Gustave!" he yelled once more. "Christine!" He looked behind him, but the crowd kept moving. The darkness kept him from telling any person from the other; the bright lights of Phantasma were coming on, throwing flashes of blinding colors over them all.

"Christine!" he shouted once more. "Christine!"

He ran inside the tent and to the first person he saw. "Sir, my wife and child are missing!"

The man shook his head, speaking some gibberish, then jerked him another direction, still jabbering, but now gesticulating towards another. Raoul went in the general direction that he had pointed, finding a young woman in bright feathered costume.

"Miss! My wife and son are gone! You have to let me-" He took a breath. "Let me see the owner of this establishment!"

She stared, then shook her head. "Oh no, sir, you cannot go see Mr. Y."

"Mr. Y – goddamn it, I don't care! If he won't help me I will call the police!"

She laughed out loud. "Oh, the police won't help you against him, sir. Mr. Y owns most of them, anyway." She chuckled once more at his foolishness.

"He owns them?" Raoul repeated, flabbergasted. "What – I thought he owned this place!"

"Oh, he does, and many things besides," she told him, adjusting her tremendously tall headdress. "But no, you won't ever get to meet him."

"Well, why not? Why not?'

She shushed him. "Because Mr. Y doesn't like to be seen."

"And why in hell would he not want to be seen?" roared Raoul, no longer caring for propriety.

"Why, I suppose it may have to do with whatever is under that mask he wears."

Raoul froze. Mask…

I wish to request the presence of Miss Christine Daaé, for a performance at my business…

Christine Daaé…

_Daaé…_

Not Christine _de Chagny_…but Christine _Daaé_…

He said, through numb lips, "Beg pardon…a mask?"

She giggled, having finally caught his attention. "Listening now, are we?" Raoul almost exploded, but she went on, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "Oh yes. We see him a few times, you know. At night, mostly, and gone so quickly we might think we imagined it. Always creeping around in the shadows, with that dark cloak and all…"

"The shadows…"

"Mm-hm. Likes to keep to himself. But I saw him once." She covered the right side of her face with her hand. "Got a white mask over here. Don't know why," she shrugged, "but he does. But he's good to us freaks and performers," she said with feeling, "so don't you go telling his secrets."

Raoul felt as if his insides had turned to ice. Dear God, what have I done…what have I agreed to…?

Christine…and Gustave….

He shoved her aside, ignoring her protests, then ran. It did not matter what she had said; he had to find the police, had to track down the deformed monster before he could harm his wife and son.

* * *

Finally figured it out, haven't you, Raoul?

Erik coming up next.

In other news... I got Les Mis, 25th anniversary concert!

Hey, don't look at me that way. I was disappointed when I saw it was 25th and not 10th anniversary. I didn't even remember Ramin Karimloo was in it until I was a quarter of the way through it. I was mostly looking forward to Lea Salonga. But when I remembered...hoo boy.

But Nick Jonas as Marius - uh, no. But that's for another day, I think.

Now I have to go figure out why my italics are disappearing...


	6. Chapter 6

Happy Monday!

Have a new chapter!

In case you're wondering why I'm so happy - I found Phantom of the Opera! From Brazil!

Now I can watch POTO in English, Spanish, German, Dutch, Hungarian, Japanese, and Portuguese! :D

Chapter 6

Gustave was not a terrifically active boy. He friends, of course, and they loved to run around and tumble in the mud and so forth, but he had always preferred staying inside and playing music. When he was all alone, and it was just him and his piano, or his violin…sometimes he would reach a state in which the notes and music seemed to just flow from him, with no active part of his own.

But to focus on the present…he had climbed flight after flight of stairs, growing ever more tired and wishing that this mysterious Mr. Y had thought to install one of those moving boxes in this building as well.

Finally he reached a point where there were no stairs, only a door. He pushed it open, glad it was unlocked (if it had not been, he wasn't quite sure what he would have done – rage for a few seconds, perhaps), and walked inside.

It was the most interesting room he had ever seen. It was like night held within one room – not one light, only the glow of the moon and stars illuminating everything, coming in from a vast window which displayed all of Coney Island for him to see. The room itself seemed made out of some mirrored, reflective surface, smooth as glass as he walked upon it. And the things within – there didn't seem to be one piece of ordinary furniture, not one chair or table or surface that had not been substantially changed from their original design into something new, dark, twisted. And in the back, shadowed and eerie, were covered…he wasn't sure what was covered. Statues, perhaps, by the look of them.

Overshadowing it all was a golden statue of an angel, though it was unlike any he had seen back in France. There, the focus in art had been on realism, perfection. This was abstract, some features exaggerated to the point of distortion, almost terrifying in how aloof it seemed, yet fitting in with the room as a whole. As his eyes adjusted he could see intricate carvings covering the items as well, curlicues and spirals and whorls within whorls…

He pulled the cover off one 'statue' and found instead a glass container – almost a cage, though the front remained open – and inside, a skeleton, dressed in a suit and holding – he examined more closely – a tray. With glasses and drinks upon it. He smiled, figuring it out. A butler. He vaguely remembered having one back at his home.

He pulled off another sheet and found a mechanical ape seated at a gorilla, looking so complicated and precariously perched that he dared not touch it. And in another, a tiny figure seated at a piano…in another, a simple jewelry display from which hung an elaborate golden necklace.

But it was the final discovery that made him grin – a piano. He could feel his fingers tingle with the music in his head, begging to be unleashed. Without thinking of the consequences, he sat down and started to play, wiping the dust from the ivory keys. In seconds he was lost, seeing and hearing nothing but the notes…

Distantly he heard a roar, but he was in a vacuum of sound – it came from too far a distance to be comprehended. He heard more melodies singing to him, and he followed them joyously, losing himself –

Then he was jerked back from it. He became sharply aware of falling – then he had crashed on to the floor, the blow from the hard surface sending needles of pain shooting up and down his arm.

"Who are you!" he heard someone roar. Dazed, still half-lost in the music, he stared at a darkened figure from which the shouting seemed to be coming from. "How did you get here?"

Gustave pushed himself up clumsily and felt a hand grasp his collar and heave him unwillingly to his feet. Now he saw the man, saw to his astonishment a white half mask over his face. But he had no time to reflect on that, for the man was still shouting at him: "What are you doing here? Give me your name!"

Gustave was so utterly terrified he could not speak. This further angered the figure, who shook Gustave roughly

"ANSWER ME!"

"Miss Fleck brought me!" Gustave spluttered out at last.

The man was even angrier than ever. "Fleck brought you here?" he snarled, dropping Gustave to the floor. Gustave hit the ground with an agonizing jolt; he had been terribly far from the ground.

The man was pacing furiously, swearing under his breath. Then he whirled on Gustave once more. "Why? Why did she bring you here?" He grabbed Gustave's arm in a painfully tight grip. "Answer me! What is your name!"

"I –I-"

"Don't try my patience, boy! What is your name?"

"Gustave!"

The man bared his teeth at the name. "Gustave what?"

"Gustave de Chagny!"

The man flung him to the ground as if Gustave had burned him. "De Chagny?" He hissed as if the words were a curse. "You're the son of the damned Vicomte!" He backed away, hands grabbing at his dark hair. "The son of that damned boy!" He turned on Gustave once more, cape swirling around him. "Get out of here!"

"But Miss Fleck-"

"I will deal with her myself! Get out!"

Gustave scrambled to his feet, racing around the piano to gather the music sheets. A growl served as a warning, then the mysterious masked man was jerking him away from the piano.

"What are you doing?"

Gustave held up his sheets as if to shield himself. "I'm just – just getting my – my music!"

"Your music!" The sheets were snatched from his hands. The man's eyes raced over the notes, then slowed down… and imperceptibly, the grip on Gustave's shoulder loosened.

"What is this?" the man breathed.

Gustave pulled free. "My music," he mumbled.

"Your music?" the other smirked. "You lie. You couldn't have written this."

"I did!" exclaimed Gustave angrily. "I wrote it, so give it back!" To the man's complete surprise, he grabbed at the papers and had them back in his own hands.

The man moved swiftly. He hauled the boy over to the piano and sat him down. "Then play it," he said with a derisive sneer.

Gustave didn't hesitate. As soon as his fingers touched the keys he felt himself move away from this ugly world and into one of breathtaking beauty, where only harmonies and melodies existed.

A discordant crash brought Gustave reeling back. The man had slammed his hands upon the keys, looking even angrier than before.

"What is this?" he shouted.

Gustave cried out wordlessly, not knowing anymore what the man wanted.

"Who taught you to do this?" the man roared at him.

"Nobody!"

"Liar! No child could write and play the way you do!"

"But I do!" Gustave shouted back, fear ebbing as anger took over. "I wrote it, and I played it for you, and that's the truth!"

Erik backed off just slightly, then grabbed the pen and ink well and pushed them in front of Gustave.

"Then I suppose you can finish it," said Erik, voice a low hiss.

Gustave took the pen and, without a second thought, started to write. Once more he sank back into his dreamy world, losing track of everything around him. He could hear, see the notes he wanted, and it was only a matter of picking them from out of the air, discarding the unwanted parts, fine-tuning each measure, each chord…

A hand lifted his own away from the paper. Gustave blinked, feeling himself back in reality once more, though this time the return was noticeably softer. The man was sitting on the piano bench beside him, gazing at him strangely, with an emotion Gustave could not identify.

"You were speaking the truth," he said after a moment. "You wrote this…and you played it…and you composed it…" He let out a shaking breath. "And you are...how old are you…?"

After a pause, Gustave murmured, "I am ten."

The man closed his eyes, the shivering now running up and down his body. "Only ten…just ten years old…" He covered his eyes with a hand. "And you play…you play like _me_…"

Gustave could only sit, confused and more than a little frightened at how fast the man's moods had changed.

"Sir?" he asked. "Are you Mr. Y?"

The man pulled his hand from his face. "I am," he said. "But you may call me…" he struggled noticeably with himself, "Erik…if you like."

"Erik…" Gustave slid away from him and immediately regretted it; Erik had caught the movement and his eyes had darkened. "Mr. – I mean – Erik? May I leave, please? My mother and father will be worried about me."

That last remark brought a quirk to Erik's lips that was almost a smile, though Gustave could not imagine what he found humorous. "Your father…" Erik said, the pitch of his voice seeming to hide a chuckle, though he made no other sound. "Yes, I'm sure he will be worried…" He turned back to the sheets, emotions flashing across his face too quickly for Gustave to discern.

"Gustave," he said suddenly, turning to the boy. "Your father…he never wrote music like this."

It was not a question – he seemed to know – but Gustave nodded anyway.

"He would not understand what it feels…to have music at your fingertips…" Erik stood, towering over the boy, radiating power. "But I do, Gustave…I know what it is like, to have this…this beauty in your mind that only you can hear…" He held his fingers to his head. "This…music…unearthly, pure…that nobody else can hear, can understand…"

His words were so similar to what he had felt all his life that Gustave found himself nodding, drawing closer to this mysterious figure who seemed to know so much.

"You can sense these things…you know that underneath this…this piano…" he gestured at it, "these instruments… they hide music of such power and greatness that you can't tell anyone…but I…I can feel this too, Gustave…"

"Yes…"

"You know then," said Erik, smiling. "You know what it is like to be…"

Suddenly he grabbed the boy, showing him around the room. With a wave of his arm he brought down a magnificent, glowing chandelier made up of glowing heads. Gustave gasped in wonder, and Erik turned eagerly, joy leaping on his face as he glimpsed Gustave's excitement.

"This is my world, Gustave!"

"It's – it's-"

"Dazzling," whispered Erik. "Like nothing you have ever seen!"

He dragged out more things, more walking men, more wonders and enchantments that seemed a part of another world, yet that seemed to draw Gustave closer and closer.

"Why do you like it, Gustave?" asked Erik, tone suggesting that he knew the answer already.

"I – I don't know…"

Erik pushed the boy down in front of him. "I know. You like it because, even if it seems odd – you know there is something underneath that is wonderful!"

Gustave could only nod, the room seeming to spin around him in a haze.

"…I am just like you, Gustave!" Erik ran to the boy, kneeling down, grabbing at the boy's sleeves hungrily. "I can find this beauty underneath the ugliness of this world, I can create things, I can show it to others, Gustave!"

"Yes…"

"…and you can too, Gustave! Tell me you can!" He forced the boy nearer to him.

"I can!" It was louder than Gustave had intended, but he felt the wildness aching in his chest, the sudden joy at finding a figure who knew what he knew. For a brief moment he wanted to grab onto this strange man who understood him so well. "I can! I do!"

Erik lifted the boy onto the bench with almost violent quickness. "Let me show you, then! Let me show you-"

And he pulled off the mask.

Gustave screamed.

Underneath the mask was the most hideous wreck of a face he had ever seen. He had visited hospitals with his mother, seen victims of war and disease – yet all of this paled in comparison to the utter horror that was Erik's face. Long scars ran up and down his cheeks; pieces of skin seemed to have been ripped from his head, exposing white bone underneath – only now did Gustave realize that Erik wore a wig, for his actual hair were both pale wisps. His lips, too were twisted and malformed; his right eye was a dull yellow.

Gustave screamed again, shoving himself away from the horror.

Anger, grief, shattering disappointment – all ran across Erik's face in quick succession as Gustave's high scream continued, as the boy scrambled off the bench and collided with the ground, and as he pulled himself up and ran to the door –

"Gustave!"

If Gustave had turned he would have seen Erik whirl around at the new voice – but Gustave only saw his mother, appearing at the doorway like an angel at the gates of hell.

"Mother!" he slammed into her, clinging to her skirts as if he were a child half his age.

"Gustave!" His mother kneeled down and kissed his face. "Gustave, Gustave! Oh my God, I was so worried!" She grabbed his arms and hugged him tightly, and only when pulling back did she see the utter fright, the struggle to get behind her. "Gustave!" she cried. "What is it-"

She raised her eyes and saw Erik behind her son, hand covering the right side of his face. She made no sound, only stood, hand going to her mouth.

"Mother, I'm scared…" whispered Gustave, hiding behind her skirts. For once his mother did not comfort him. He raised his head up and saw his mother, gazing at the man. Then he felt a tremble run through her arm and saw her face go white.

"Mother…" Gustave cried. His mother broke from her trance then with a choked scream; grabbing her son's hand she turned swiftly for the door.

He saw Erik move faster than he thought possible, not for them but to his left. The door out of the room slammed shut as he and his mother reached it.

A moan left his mother's lips, and it frightened Gustave, for he had never seen his mother show any fright.

"Erik…" he heard her whisper.

And from Erik, he heard a low word leave him. "Christine…"

His mother murmured, "I should have known…" She pressed her fingers to her head. "Oh, God, I should have known… that song…it's all you…"

Erik made as if to step forward but jerked himself back. Yet he stared at her as a starving man might gaze upon a banquet.

Finally, she turned her head towards the door and said, "Let me out."

At this he smiled, an absolutely chilling smile. "No."

"You think you can keep me your prisoner again?" she exclaimed, her hand going for Gustave's and squeezing it tightly. He felt another shiver run through her. "Raoul will have the police out for you!"

He laughed. "The police? No, I do not think they will be coming after me this time, Christine. I learned my lesson, you see, after my time at the Opera Populaire. No, the police will not dare work against me; I've made sure of that!" He laughed once more as Christine's face went pale.

"What do you plan to do then, Erik?" she asked quietly, face set.

He stopped, seeming not to know the answer himself. Finally he said, "I only wanted…to hear you sing for me… once more…" He looked at her, and Gustave could not understand his gaze – it was simple adoration, of a depth he had never seen even in his own father.

"Christine…do you remember…that night before you were wed?" For some reason his eyes flicked to Gustave. "That night…when you came to me…"

"Erik…" She moved to him, hand outstretched, then paused as she felt Gustave's tug on her skirts. To her son, she whispered, "Gustave, can you leave…I need to speak with Erik…"

Gustave stared at Erik, still remembering the horror of a face – he could still see shadows of it, even though Erik had covered himself. "Mother, do you know him?" he asked, clinging to her. Gustave could not bear to leave her alone with him.

"He is a…friend." She glanced up and asked Erik, "Please…if we are to…stay here…do you have a room for him to rest…?"

He nodded and pointed to another door, which opened as he gestured at it. Mother and child walked hesitantly towards it, making sure to keep a good distance from Erik. Inside the room was a large bed with fine linen sheets and a thick velvet blanket, with small pillows neatly arranged at the head. Opposite the bed was a magnificent dressing table, ornately carved and topped by a glittering mirror. Yet despite the glamour, the room had a sense of disuse; the air was stale and there was a fine layer of dust over the furniture.

Gustave couldn't conceal his wonderment, even then, nor could he resist trying to keep all the covers as neat as they had been when they entered. His mother tucked him in and kissed him goodnight.

"Mother…are we staying here?" he whispered.

She nodded, face paler than usual. "Only for a few days."

"Is…Erik…keeping us here?" This was said in an even lower voice.

"He is."

In the smallest voice imaginable, he asked, "Are you going…back out?"

She nodded. Gustave saw Erik at the doorway, watching him and grabbed at Christine's hand.

"Don't leave me in here!" he cried.

"Hush, Gustave. There is nothing to worry about in here."

"Mommy…" He gasped as Erik moved forward slightly, shrinking into the bed. "He scares me," he whimpered.

"Shh, Gustave." She kissed his forehead, smoothing back his hair. "Get some sleep. I will wake you up, if we are to leave. We will talk more in the morning, too."

He lay down in the bed as she left the room, turning off the lights and left him alone, and wished fervently that he was back in his old home, in his own bed, where things weren't so strange and frightening.

* * *

I think that went really well, don't you?

Anyway, I really like the song "Beauty Underneath."

And I tried really, really hard to get all the emotion and suspense and tension across in writing without resorting to lyrics.

And I really, really, _really_ think I failed.

Oh well.

On another note: I'm kind of wondering what happened to Erik's robot-Christine. I'm just going to assume he dumped it in the basement sometime prior to this scene. (I'm also assuming he did that in the actual musical - how creepy would that be for Christine, walking in to see this doppelganger of her hanging around in Erik's lair?)


	7. Chapter 7

Anyone figured out who I ship yet?

You know what I should do? I should write a Raoul/Christine phic, then an Erik/Christine phic, and release them at the same time.

Then I'll write a phic where Erik and Raoul are together and Christine and Meg are married only Meg lusts after Erik except Erik wants Madame Giry only Madame Giry is holding a secret affair with Raoul who's only with her because she looks like Meg and that's who he really wants except Christine is deeply in love with Meg who stays with Christine out of guilt.

What a fun story that will be! Try drawing a relationship chart between all of them. Or saying all of that in one breath.

Chapter 7

Raoul wanted to shake the man by the collar. "You have to send your men out, now!" he shouted. "My wife and son are in danger!"

The policeman was rail thin, dressed in a uniform so stiffly pressed its edges looked ready to cut, his perfectly trimmed mustache only adding to an overall sense of efficiency; yet he slouched down in his chair, staring disagreeably at the French viscount.

"Mr. Chagny," he said, mangling Raoul's name, "I'm afraid that without some sort of evidence-"

"Evidence? I've told you my story! How many other masked men are out there?"

"Nevertheless, we have to follow certain procedures. You understand we can't go barging into people's homes without some evidence that they've committed some wrongdoing." He leaned back in his chair. "While that probably happens a great deal in France, we follow due process of law here."

Ignoring the slur on his country, Raoul spat, "So you will not do anything for a missing woman and child?"

"I'm sorry, we cannot. Not until they have been missing for at least a day, anyway. And you know, my boys are out there with more important things…Coney Island is full of criminals."

He waved a hand towards a window, from which Raoul could see the fantastic sight that was Coney Island at night. Yet this view left him feeling cold. The lights, once bright and thrilling, now seemed hard and terrifying, beguiling wandering people in so that they were never to be seen again.

"I will pay you," Raoul growled, throwing a wad of money at him. "If it's a bribe you're after…look, this is all I brought with me…"

The man didn't even glance at it. "I'm sorry, Count-"

"Viscount-"

"Viscount, I'm going to let you in on something." He leaned forward, the chair's front legs hitting the floor with a bang. "You're dealing with Mr. Y, here. And he's not a man you want to fight."

"I am not afraid-"

"Yes, you've beaten him before. I've heard your story. But I'll tell you something else. I've been working with Mr. Y a while now, and he's never done anything to anyone who…didn't deserve it, shall we say? And he's never done a thing to a woman, or a kid." He sat back again as if this was enough to allay Raoul's worries. "So I suggest you look elsewhere. Because Mr. Y has nothing to do with this."

* * *

Christine shut the door behind her, facing Erik now. Her arms were wrapped around her body in a gesture of unconscious shielding. "I am sorry," she murmured, "for what Gustave did…he didn't understand…"

Erik turned on her, hissing, "How could you think I would not know?"

Her eyes widened, she shook her head, trying to deny what was happening. "No…"

"How could you think I would not tell?"

"Erik, I don't know what you're-"

"I want the truth, Christine!" In a rage he was on her, hands around her shoulders, shaking her furiously. "Is that boy my son?"

She screamed, "I don't know!" She pushed him back, sobbing. "I don't know, I don't know…I don't know…"

"How could you not know?" he roared. "Look at him! He is just like me! He hears music in his head…he plays and sings as well as I did when I was his age!"

She gasped, "My father-"

"Your father was a violinist! And you Christine, are a fine and gifted singer, but you cannot compose!" He jerked her up to his masked face. "Admit it, Christine! On that night, before you were wed – you conceived-"

She struggled futilely, crying out as if by drowning him out she might still deny the truth: "No! No!"

And as the full truth hit both of them, he released her, whispering, "A son…"

"Erik…" she cried.

"My son…" he finished, heedless of her. "Our son…" His face twisted in sudden anguish. "And he hates me all the same…because of this accursed face!" He tore off the mask.

Christine closed the space between them, gazing fearlessly at him. "Erik…he's a child…he doesn't know any better."

He stared down, drawing in deep, shuddering breaths. "Christine… that night…you told me you loved me." He grasped her fingers in his own. "What of now?"

She looked at him, and though it wasn't a cold glance, it was by no means a loving one either. "I did love you, that night. I saw you truly that night – not as my Angel, and not as the Phantom, but just you – Erik. And…you were beautiful."

He sneered, trying to mask the terror at wandering into such unknown emotional realms. "Beautiful? I?"

"I had seen your genius…and I had seen you at your worst…and that night I saw your heart…your soul…" She lifted a hand to, but did not touch, his face. "And I saw this, yes…but what did the outside matter against what I saw within?"

He clasped her hand in his own, but then she moved back, pulling free. "Then I awoke, ready to follow you, wherever you led…and I found you gone." She drew her hand back. "You left me. Every time I have chosen to stay by your side, you have pushed me away."

She stepped back, eyes distant. "So I married Raoul…and I loved him too, Erik. I still do."

Christine straightened up, the first signs of anger now entering her eyes. "It was one night, Erik. Only one night. I have spent ten years with Raoul. He knows me, and I him. And I won't have you invade our life again."

"You loved me once," he said in a low voice. "You can love me again." He touched her cheek, and she, at least, did not draw back. "Christine…if I could turn back time…and start all over…I would. You don't know what I would give to be able to do that…" He sighed. "But now is all the time I have to show you your love-"

"I love Raoul!" she cried. "Raoul and our son-"

"_My_ son!"

"You have not been there to raise him!" she shouted, no longer hiding from the truth. "You weren't there to hold him, or love him, the way a father ought to!" She took a breath. "And I am no longer a frightened child, Erik. You cannot force my love." She turned away.

There was a long silence. Then Erik said tensely, "You will sing for me."

She said through gritted teeth, "As you have said before: I am not a songbird to be caged and forced into singing."

He came up behind her so swiftly and quietly that she was unaware of his presence until he had a hand on her shoulder and spun her around to face him, him and the terrible deformity.

"If you do not," he said, so quietly his voice was almost a hiss, "you will not see your son again."

She blanched. "How dare-"

"I will take him…" the way I took you, "and you will never see him again." He took one menacing step forward. "You know I can, Christine. I have the right to do so."

"And will you tell him you're his father? Shatter his love for me and for Raoul with one sentence?" she spat, trying to hide her fear.

At this he dropped his heated stare. "No. I would not wish that knowledge on any child." And now she perceived a sudden vulnerability in him. "Christine…it is better he remain unaware of his paternity." He placed the mask upon his face once more. "Please…do not tell him either."

She gazed at him, turned away haughtily, then flicked her eyes back at him, wondering at this strange man she still felt she did not know, one who terrorize her and the Opera House if he so wished, and yet who could show a strangely gentle, caring side as well. The need for reassurance in his eyes dissolved some of her anger. Sighing, she placed her hand over his, and said, "I promise, Erik."

He squeezed her fingers. "And I promise you, Christine…Gustave shall have all I can give."

"What do you mean?"

"This entire place – the fortune I have amassed…" He spread his arms, the movement indicating not just the room but somehow, all of Phantasma. "It will all be his." He sneered at her. "He will need it."

Her eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about?"

He laughed cruelly. "Does your precious husband, whom you know so well, not tell you of his financial affairs?"

"He – he does not want me to worry…"

"And he did not want you to sing anymore, but we all see how that turned out," answered Erik. "Then I suppose you do not know that your husband is not as wealthy as previously thought? Oh, do not worry," he said, as her face went white once more, "he has enough for you and…the boy…to live on. But time has not been kind to him. Or rather, his money."

She shook her head. "Erik, it does not matter. I suspected as much. But we will not let you will your park to Gustave!"

"Do you think this is really about money?" he hissed. "Do you not see? In Gustave, my ugliness…my imperfections...they are made right. He…he is a light in the darkness…" He put a hand to his mask once more. "Even if he should hate me…"

"He does not hate you," Christine murmured, the words sounding false even to her.

Erik heard it too and only said, "Does it matter? Even his mother hated me…" He walked away to the window, gazing down at the place he had now given to Gustave. "So be it. He does not have to know where his inheritance came from, anyway…you can tell him that the place was originally your precious Vicomte's, if you wish…"

A small ache was starting in Christine's chest, and she wasn't sure if it was pity, or something else entirely. All she knew was that she still could not comprehend the power she – and now, Gustave – had over this frightening man who could be both a murderer and a vulnerable, shunned outcast.

He sighed again. "You should go to bed. It is late…and tomorrow we must practice."

She blinked. "Practice?"

"The aria I wrote for you." His eyes blazed with new purpose. "You will sing it in four days time at the concert hall I built specifically for that purpose. And then…we shall see how you choose…" He moved back to her, taking her arm. "That room that…Gustave…is sleeping in…I built that…for you, if you should wish to sleep in it."

She was speechless for a second, mind filling with images of the swan bed he had laid her in when she had first entered his lair, the candles, the figurine of a monkey…

He led her in but stood at the doorway. For a moment they shared a glance, hers still defiantly cold, his…enigmatic. Without another word he turned, closing the door behind himself.

Christine laid herself down next to Gustave, pulling the covers over herself and him, and wrapping him in her arms. The situation struck her all of a sudden – she was now a captive in Erik's dark lair. But now, so was her son – his son – the son he threatened to take from her should she not obey him – should she not (and she knew this was the true threat) love him once more.

When she was younger, more naive, she might have sobbed herself to sleep over the situation. But she couldn't. Raoul was not coming to save her, to soothe her with talk of light and kindness. Raoul didn't even know that the man who had haunted and chased them ten years ago was the same Mr. Y who had invited them in the first place. And there was no way she could warn him.

Ten years…ten years since she had left Erik alone in his lair with only a ring clasped in his hand as a reminder. Ten years since she had gone back to him and made love to him in a small cabin hidden in the woods…

She hadn't known what made her do it. All she had known was that she had turned back and seen him, standing completely alone…and something had wrenched inside of her – guilt, pity, empathy – at finally seeing that this man loved her, that he had been thankful enough for one kiss (one kiss – and she had kissed Raoul so many times in the last few months – she could not comprehend it) that he had let her go.

The image, the thoughts, his voice as he called out for her, had tormented her for months as she waited for her marriage to Raoul. She had no idea what had happened to him after she had left – there had been a mob after him, and she had not known if there were secret tunnels or passages out – and even if there were, she did not know if he would use them…

And then…and then…there had been far more to it. All her life she had followed someone else – her father, as they traveled Europe; Madame Giry, who placed her amongst the chorus girls; her Angel, who had taught her to sing and controlled her like none other…even sweet Raoul, who had told her that her Angel, her Phantom, could not possibly exist, who had persuaded into performing the disastrous Don Juan Triumphant…

That night, as her Angel had screamed at her to make a choice, make a choice…she had finally made one. She had chosen Erik, and she had kissed him, and even now she knew not whether it was a manipulative action on her part, or one of genuine love. All she had known after was that the one kiss had created feelings she had never known existed within her. When Erik had shoved her aside and stumbled away, sobbing, she could only stand, shocked to the core at herself.

And then Erik had released her. She had gone to Raoul because…because…because it was the proper thing to do! He was her fiancée, the knight in shining armor come to rescue her. And when she had made one more attempt at reaching Erik he had screamed at her in a fury to leave…so she had, leaving him to an unknown fate.

She had gone to the only person who would know what had happened – Madame Giry. There, Meg told her of finding the Phantom's mask, bereft of its owner, and of the destruction wrought by the mob. Her mother had been far less talkative, giving only few details of his life. It was then that Christine realized that almost a decade of being with her Angel had left her with almost no knowledge of his origins or life before her. The ballet mistress had only given her one more piece of information: her Angel's name, Erik.

Christine had gone back home and wept for him, for the woe she had unknowingly brought on him and for her own envisioning of his bleak, lonely future. She still feared him – his anger, his murderous capabilities, his terrible obsession – yet at the same time, her main memories were of her caring, gentle Angel, the one who had first spoken to her while she sobbed in a chapel, and who had mentored her, brought her under his wing, and finally, loved her enough to release her.

So she had gone back to Madame Giry to beg her for Erik's whereabouts, and instead found the woman leaving. Normally she would have called her name, but something compelled her not to – perhaps it was the furtive manner the usually stern and upright woman was exuding. Regardless of the reason, Christine had chosen to follow in the shadows, and in so doing found Erik's small cottage far out from Paris.

She had told herself that she only wished to speak to him once more – as she had said, their parting had been so swift; he had decided for her, actually. There was a quick burst of irritation at that memory. All her life someone else had decided how she should live her life – Erik, and Raoul, even her father. But she was to be a wife in the morning, and she could not have that.

Foolish girl. What a decision she had made. For as soon as she had entered she could only recall the one kiss she and Erik had shared down in the lair, and the sudden, frighteningly intense passion it had awakened in her chest. It was so powerful she had thought herself mad – surely no one could feel such a sensation from one kiss. And it terrified her – it was exactly the emotion Erik would conjure up. She had rushed to Raoul's sweet, gentle love, and sought to forget it. She had thought she had succeeded.

Once again she berated that younger self. She had given herself to Erik that night, and known, quite without warning, how breathless, consuming, and fiery love could be. She had awoken next to him and curled deeply into his arms, and whispered that she had loved him, before falling back asleep, not waiting for his answer, already assured of his own feelings.

Foolish child. She had awoken to find the bed and the house empty of him and any signs he had ever inhabited the place. She had not wept as she pulled on her mussed up dress and tried in vain to tidy up her hair. This betrayal hurt her to the core, burnt out a part of her very soul, and no tears would fill that hole.

She had not spoken to Raoul of it, of course. She had arrived at his home and told him she had spent the night with Meg and Madame Giry, speaking of 'women's issues' – an excuse he readily accepted. Then, just a few hours after she had first confronted Erik, she had walked down the aisle in an ivory white dress covered with lace and bows, with a beribboned bustle and wide hoop skirts, fitted with a train stretching ten feet and a veil so long she had nearly tripped over it – a fitting gown for a Vicomtesse, and one that bore no resemblance to the first wedding gown she had worn.

She wondered if he suspected. That night he had made love to her, and while there was less of the ardor that so defined Erik, he had been kind and considerate, thinking it had been her first time.

"Did I hurt you, Christine?" he had whispered in the dark.

She had shaken her head. Surely he must have known that it was too quick, too easy. But while Raoul had had his own share of women, all had been like her – previously defiled. She was nothing special.

A few weeks later, she had missed her monthly time and started vomiting. A doctor confirmed it – she was with child. She let herself be swung about by an ecstatic Raoul and told herself that the child must be his. But she soon ceased to worry about the child's paternity, overtaken by the terrible pregnancy. Her morning sickness did not end, as Madame Giry predicted, after the first three months, but continued throughout the nine months. She had grown thin and pale, unable to hold down any food for long; to make matters worse, she had started bleeding, little spots of scarlet appearing in her undergarments, a symptom she hid from Raoul. The baby had grown heavy in her womb, her back aching from carrying it, the child's incessant kicking keeping her fatigued body up all night.

The labor was long and the worst pain she had ever felt. Not even when she had fallen down while practicing her ballet steps, tearing several muscles, had matched pain like this. Several times she felt herself floating in a haze, looking down at her own unmoving body dispassionately. Only later did she learn how very close to death in those moments. Yet when she was conscious the doctor had placed the mewling baby in her arms, and despite the grief and the pain she had loved him. Loved him despite all the doctor's warnings.

The baby was premature, born two months too early, a scrawny, pathetically ugly child barely able to suck at his mother's breast. The doctor had later taken Raoul aside and told him that, even though it seemed likely the boy would not live past the week, Raoul had to ensure its survival, for it was the only child he would ever have. The birth had been too hard on Christine; another child kill her. Raoul had held her hand as she sobbed and soothed her, saying that it didn't matter, that one son was enough…if this one could even live long enough.

But the boy, the new little Vicomte, as Raoul had called him adoringly, had an unexpected tenacity, and soon Christine and Raoul found themselves celebrating his first month; then six months; then, a year.

So they raised Gustave (named for her father), and from the moment he could toddle to a piano he had shown musical ability. His chubby fingers would inevitably coax out a tune; his cries for attention sounded like an angel's. Christine told Raoul – and herself – that it was her and her father's heritage. Raoul had smiled, accepted the explanation without any questions, and rejoiced at having a genius for a son, and wasted neither time nor money on hiring an assembly of tutors.

She rolled over, putting an arm around Gustave's shoulders. She had to admit it – Gustave was Erik's son. He was right; neither she nor her father had ever shown any ability to compose. And she could see Erik's features within Gustave, unmarred and perfect on both sides.

But what of Raoul? Raoul, whom she had been with for ten years. And she still loved him. He had been with her when she had betrayed him in the worst way possible; had even, unknowingly, raised Gustave as his own son. And he loved her too, perhaps as much as Erik did her. Moreover, she loved him, and not the quick smoldering passionate love she had for Erik, which time always extinguished, but with an intimate, compassionate love.

I love Raoul, she told herself. Once, I loved Erik – before _Don Juan Triumphant_ and _Il Muto_, before the events that occurred after _Hannibal_ – but things had changed.

She told herself that, but deep inside she doubted she could hold this conviction. Erik had managed to sway her before, without even trying. And only he could inspire such emotion, such vocal heights, from her. Every feeling he dared not express came out through his music. And she was frightened of just how his music would sway her.

* * *

Woman's intuition, my ass. If Christine married Raoul the next day they probably consummated the marriage immediately after, leaving Gustave's paternity VERY much in question.

Just FYI - I read Leroux (though I don't remember it very clearly), I read Kay (I take quite a bit from her in this story, actually), and I even found a copy of Frederick Forsythe's copy of Phantom of Manhattan in my library somewhere. Leroux and Kay Erik are a bit harder for me to write, especially Leroux - I don't have quite a grip on that Erik's personality yet (i.e. psychotic). And I adore the stage and movie adaptation, even if the latter gets a lot of flak, for various (sometimes obvious) reasons.

And - should LND be made into a movie, I'd be rooting for Gerard Butler (after he gets a few more vocal lessons) and Emmy Rossum to come back. I think I'm in the minority there. I'd just like to see Gerard Butler's interpretation of the Phantom, and compare it to Ramin Karimloo's (as soon as I can get a bootleg version of LND onstage, that is).


	8. Chapter 8

So, this chapter is a day later than it would be, because my college had a massive power outage, and once power was back on, well, Internet was not, so... apologies, and enjoy.

Anyway, here are some thoughts on Raoul:

I like Raoul. In my mind, he's kind of like the perfect boyfriend - charming, handsome, willing to die for Christine (I mean, journeying down to the Phantom's lair and nearly getting strangled for his efforts? Yeah, devotion there.), and, to me, accepting of Christine's possible feelings for Erik. I took more of this from Kay's Raoul than, say, LND's Raoul. XD But yeah, this was after reading some Raoul-bashing and so forth. I've read my share of Raoul bashing (Who hasn't? It's fun!), but I'm a Raoul-defender, of sorts.

Chapter 8

Gustave awoke in a new bed, in an unfamiliar room, and with dreams of nightmarish faces and grotesque creatures still plaguing his mind. He awoke with eyes wide open, staring up at the ceiling, and had whimpered to himself when his mind caught up with his body.

He turned around and saw his mother, sleeping beside him.

He whispered, "Mother?"

She did not awake.

Gustave crawled out of bed and tiptoed to the door, placing his ear to the surface. He could hear nothing outside. Maybe, he thought, Erik was gone. Maybe he had left…

And he could find a way out of here.

He remembered when his mother had tried to run. He had thought Erik might stop them, but Erik had not. At least, Erik had not run at them. He had gone in another direction…and then the door had slammed shut on its own. It was like Erik had magic powers…

Gustave crept outside. The room was empty, silent as a tomb, darkened. All was shrouded in shadows, indiscernible. At the far left was the door Gustave and his mother had entered through, closed and most likely locked.

Gustave went up to it, tapping at the surface. It was hard wood and metal. There was a knob, shaped like a skull, which Gustave twisted at to no avail. But neither was there keyhole or bolt or chain, or anything that normally kept a door shut.

Failing to open it the normal way, the boy glanced around the edges of the door. There were hinges along the side, metal too…and Gustave felt along them. Maybe it was mechanical, like Erik's creations. He slid a finger down one of them, trying to discern a crack –

"You won't find the answer there."

Gustave whirled around, fear making his arms tingle with goosebumps. There stood Erik, gazing impassively at him.

"W-What?" he stuttered.

"You are looking for a way out." Erik stepped closer. Gustave responded by backing away, hitting the door. Erik tilted his head slightly, examining him, and said, "Would you like me to show you the solution?"

"S-Solution?"

"To opening the door." He stepped forward. "You were trying to escape."

Gustave shook his head frantically. Erik was masked, but Gustave, in his mind, could trace every scar and bump of Erik's deformity underneath it – and he felt a sickening terror when Erik drew ever closer.

Erik asked him, "Did you really want to leave?" If Gustave had listened more closely, or not been so preoccupied with his own fear, he might have heard an undercurrent of sadness beneath Erik's words. But he did not.

"I – I – no…" said Gustave, stumbling onto the answer he thought might be the least likely to provoke an angry response.

Erik took another step forward. "Are you frightened?" he asked. There was an almost curious quality to his gait, as if he were puzzled by Gustave's presence.

Gustave nodded furiously. Erik stopped where he was.

"There is nothing to be frightened of," he said, reaching for Gustave's shoulder.

Gustave cried out and dodged, tripping over his own feet and tumbling to the ground. Before Erik could make a move to help him, he had pushed himself back up and was scrambling back to his own bedroom.

* * *

It was strange, how isolated Christine felt in this tower. It was but a mile or so from Phantasma and Coney Island, at the most, yet set on its own spit of land jutting out to sea, enough that it felt set apart from the riotous noise and adventure of the park. Erik's home was as different from his park as the two halves of his face were to each other: one light, attractive, gleaming, the other brooding in the shadows.

The first day passed in almost total silence. Gustave awoke after her and cried out at his unfamiliar surroundings, hoping it had all been a bad dream only to find that it was not so. He had clung to his mother and begged to go home, and when she could not grant that wish, to stay in the room. No amount of coaxing would force him from the bed, nor could any persuasion get a coherent answer from him.

"If you will not leave the room, I will have to go outside with you," she explained.

Gustave did not let go of her sleeve. "Stay here, Mother!"

"Gustave, please….I must try and speak to Erik, or find someone to help us."

Gustave shook his head furiously, though his grip loosened just lightly.

Christine continued, cajoling him lightly. "It will only be a few minutes – an hour, at longest. I will be back soon."

"Mother…"

"Gustave." Now she injected some sternness into her tone. "I have to at least find some food for us, if we are to stay here."

"What if he finds you?"

"He will not hurt me – or you." That she was sure of. "Now let go of me, Gustave, or join me outside."

Faced with that choice, her son had released her, though he had compensated by burrowing under the pillows until she returned. Christine had been left to explore Erik's new domain on her own.

His home – which she had not seen in its entirety the night before – was like a great anteroom, similar in building style to his underground lair. Yet like his old home, it was so crowded with objects it seemed much smaller than it really was. It was windowless, lit entirely by ceiling lights of some make she was unfamiliar with. The walls were also decorated but in a more nouveau, simplistic style – large metallic circles and statues that seemed only somewhat humanoid. Perhaps the most striking was a gigantic golden angel, its serene face somehow frightening in its abstractness.

All around were ghostly, humanoid objects she could only discern up close – the skeletal butler and the mechanical animals Gustave had found so fascinating, the chandelier of heads, its fire dimmed for now. In the center was a magnificent piano, though unlike the organ she remembered back at the opera house, the top of this instrument was devoid of any papers or music sheets.

Though Erik's home seemed, at first glance, like one magnificent room, she soon found others. There was her own bedroom, where Gustave remained bundled under the covers. There was a smaller workroom filled with various tools and blueprints she could not begin to comprehend. And there were two doors, both locked. One was quite ordinary, and she assumed it to be Erik's bedroom. The other was made of heavy wood, similar to the entrance; based on that, she assumed it to be another exit, and after trying the doorknob, let it alone.

When she was finished exploring, she returned to her room, where Gustave remained huddled in bed.

"Is he outside?" he asked in a whisper. When she shook her head, he sighed in relief. The boy's eyes remained wide, flicking constantly to the open door as if fearing Erik's shadow might cross over him. His twitches whenever some strange sound was heard made Christine's heart ache, though she was not sure for whom the sadness was greater – her frightened son, or the father he so feared.

* * *

Erik _had_ avoided them. So strange, so intoxicating was Christine's presence in his life that he feared he might lose control in front of her, and do something he would never be able to forgive himself for.

Then there was the incident with Gustave…he knew, now, what a mistake it had been, to assume anyone, much less a child, could try and understand him.

The boy had not even wanted to be near him… And he did not know what to do with a child. He had tried to reach out to the boy one more time…but even his own flesh and blood would not accept him…

But for a moment, he had felt a closeness to the boy, one that had taken months, years, to develop with Christine – an instant connection, like two kindred souls. That was why he had so quickly revealed himself…

A mistake. A ghastly mistake that had alienated the boy from him forever.

So he let the two – two, he could not understand that concept, still – acquaint themselves with his home, never even coming in until the moon was high in the night sky.

In the meantime, he took a stroll around his theme park, cloaked under his black cape. The number and kinds of people his park attracted hid him well; the rushing people barely spared him a glance, assuming him to be part of the shows.

He found Dr. Gangle hawking his attractions at one of the tents. The man was surprised to see his reclusive master actually out amongst the people, but took his orders without questions.

"The concert hall is to be opened in four days time," Erik said in a clipped voice. "Until then, I will be staying at the Aerie, with no disturbances from anybody, is that clear?"

"Of course, Master."

"I also want food delivered to my tower at eight in the morning, noon, and six in the evening, every day, for the next four days." He checked his watch. "In fact, you may want to send someone to deliver it now. Choose any kind of food you like, but make sure there is a great variety. Have Miss Fleck do it; she knows the way best. Tell her to leave it in the door."

Dr. Gangle nodded. "Is there anything else?"

Erik pondered the question for a moment, then smiled. "There is a man who may ask you questions about me – the Vicomte de Chagny. Leave him alone, distract him, lie to him – but do not lead him to my home. This is most important to me, Gangle."

"Of course."

"In fact, it is best you tell the rest of our staff too of my orders."

"I will, sir."

Erik inclined his head. "Good day, then."

"Good day to you, Master."

* * *

A turn of the key, the opening of the door on well-oiled hinges, nevertheless echoed in the utter quiet of the room. Christine found herself rushing out, then pulling back, afraid that it would be Erik.

It was not; instead, Fleck the aerialist entered, clutching a basket and looking mesmerized by her surroundings.

"Miss Daaé?" she whispered. "The Master sent me with some food."

Christine rushed forward, taking it from her arms. Fleck looked quite glad, and Christine could see why – the basket was very heavy. And it could not have been easy to climb the many flights of stairs. Of course, since Fleck was an aerialist, she was trained to take heavy exercise, and she did not look too winded. But it was Christine who felt the sudden rising hope within her, not only from this contact with the outside world, but because Fleck, if she could be persuaded, might help her and Gustave to escape.

"Please, I am Christine de Chagny, now," said Christine, placing the basket on the piano top. "I have not been called Miss Daaé in ten years."

Fleck tilted her head. "Ah, but the master has always called you Miss Daaé, and you will remain so to us." Christine could only assume she meant the other freaks.

"Miss Fleck, do you usually bring food here?" Christine asked next.

Fleck shook her pale head. "The master does not request it."

"So does he come down to eat?"

Another shake of the head. "He rarely leaves his tower. We do not know how he manages. But he is good to us, and we do not question him."

Christine nodded, feeling the bubble of hope deflate. Of course Erik would be kind to those different; he had experienced it firsthand and would be sympathetic, though she could not imagine him in such a role. But it would make persuading Fleck all the more difficult.

She had to try, though. For her son, and for Raoul.

"Miss Fleck," she said, not without some hesitance, "please…you know I have a husband?"

She nodded, her kohl-lined eyes unblinking.

"Then you know…you must wonder why I am staying here." Fleck didn't answer, but Christine could see the curiosity in her eyes, and took advantage of it. "It's Erik," whispered Christine, "he's keeping us – my son and I – here, and he has locked us in. Miss Fleck, you must help us escape. Please!"

Fleck backed away, shaking her head. Christine held back a sob, but could not restrain herself from lunging forward and taking the woman's hands in her own.

"Please! You must help us!" she cried. "At least…at least send a letter…to my husband, Raoul…please…"

Fleck pulled free, still not agreeing. "We have been forbidden from speaking to the Vicomte," she said in her high voice.

"But surely – it is a mere letter! You don't even have to give it to him – just deliver it!"

"I would not do so even if the master had not forbidden us from doing so," answered Fleck calmly.

"You mean-" Christine gasped. "You – you won't help?"

Fleck murmured, "The master would not like it." She cocked her head to one side, examining the distraught Christine, and suddenly smiled, a gentle one. "The master loves you," she said simply. "He has spoken of you for ten years, you know. We must not interfere with that love."

"But I don't love him!" cried Christine.

Fleck laughed quietly. "Of course you do!" She danced away to the door. "You just don't know it."

After Fleck had gone, there was nothing for Christine to do but bring the food back and give it to Gustave, who had to be persuaded into eating.

They slept a great deal that first day as well. The room was so well insulated that the raucousness of Coney Island could not penetrate the walls. The quiet was broken only by clicks of the automatons, the creaks as the tower was buffeted by sea winds. When they awoke from their frequent naps, Christine would steal into the main room once more (amidst much crying from her son) and take some books for the two to read. His library, she found out, was extensive, written not only in French and English, but Spanish, German, Russian, one she could only vaguely place at from somewhere in Arabia, and more that she could not recognize –Oriental, anyway. Their subject range was even wider – not just ones on music, but the natural and physical sciences, mathematics, history and art and humanities, as well as fiction – epic and modern poetry, novels, short stories…

Erik may or may not have returned during that time; she was not sure. But if he did, she did not notice, not that first day. When night fell, she turned off the bedroom light and tried to reassure her son.

"Gustave, you must go out tomorrow."

He shook his head fiercely. She stroked back his hair and asked him why not. He whispered that he was scared.

She sighed. "Gustave…it is only a face."

He lifted terrified eyes to her. "But it was so frightening, Mother." He snuggled in closer. "I had a nightmare about it, Mother. It was so scary!" He clung to her hand.

She hugged him. Right now, she felt as far from Raoul as if he were on the other side of the country. "Gustave…" One look at his face told her he was not ready for any convincing on her part. She conceded to that. "Let us talk tomorrow. But you must leave this room. You cannot spend four days in here."

Pulling his head from the pillow, he asked her, "Mother, what do you think Father is doing?"

She sighed. Raoul… "I don't know."

"Do you think he's looking for us?"

"Yes. Of course." She wondered how much Raoul knew. Probably very little. He would not assume that they were captured by an enemy he thought defeated ten years before.

"Do you think he'll find us?"

She told him the truth. "I don't know."

Gustave curled deeper into the covers. "So…I have to go out tomorrow?" She could almost read his mind: Father won't be coming to rescue us…

"Yes. You'll have to."

Christine felt him jerk as if in disagreement. But in a tone of resignation, he murmured, "Yes, Mother."

She held him even tighter. "Gustave…there is more to a person than a face."

* * *

Erik pulled himself away when he heard the conversation end. Try as he might, he could not resist from listening to Christine and his…

_Son._

He put the thought aside; it was still too momentous, too strange an idea, for him to grasp completely. But still the thought hovered on the edge of his mind, that there was another part of him just on the other side of the door, a mix of him and Christine…

He returned to his room and sat down upon the bed, staring at the sheets. The room had been locked, and a careful check of its undisturbed contents satisfied him; he would not want Christine stumbling in here. For it was almost a shrine to her – drawings, in pen, in charcoal, in oils, all of her; old drafts of compositions he had struggled with and finally discarded; roses, bouquets of them he always yet never planned to give to her…and a ring, lying on the end table.

_There is more to a person than a face…_

He sneered. Hypocrisy, Christine? She had fled his face for the youth and handsomeness of the Vicomte. She had no business teaching her son – his son – the foolish cliché of 'not judging a book by its cover'.

He tossed aside his blankets, so hard they were almost flung to the ground.

It would not be his face that Christine would fall in love with, he thought with heavy heart. Though in time… perhaps she might grow used to it. Maybe. A deep sigh shook him as he pondered his plans.

It would be his music, his genius, she would love. It had always been that way.

He looked distastefully down at the bed, finding himself in no mood for sleep. With another sigh he pushed the covers back and left his room. But he avoided the piano. Music held no pleasure for him anymore. No, it was Phantasma, and his useless automatons, that distracted his attention now.

"It has been a day."

* * *

Raoul glared over the table at the policeman. He shrugged.

"Your point?"

Raoul shouted, "You said you would be searching for my wife and child!"

"Oh, yes, you're the Baron-"

"Viscount!"

"Yes, yes." He yawned. "Well, I'm afraid that my men are busy with other things – more important crimes and all that…"

"A missing wife and child is not important?" Raoul roared, quite red in the face.

The man sighed. "The amount of crime in Coney Island is enormous – as is the amount of false alarms." He waved Raoul off. "Come back in another day. Then we might begin searching."

"Might?"

The policeman groaned. "Very well. We will. But another day, sir. Good night."

* * *

Now that I think on LND more, though, I kind of like the idea of Raoul becoming a drunken gambler, because of all the psychological complexities it brings up - he must suspect that Christine was unfaithful to him, and if not he must have some doubts after Christine's kiss with the Phantom, and there is possible jealousy in that Christine may be more famous than he, even though she is a commoner and he is part of the French nobility...so in all honesty, I think I missed out on a heck of a lot of character development.

While I'm still thinking on Kay, I will say that it was because of her that I'm pretty accepting of the Phantom getting a love child off of Christine after one night of sex and all - I mean, she was the one who brought up the idea in her book. So if anyone goes on about how that plotline is like bad FanFiction, I'll hurl Kay's book at them. And my edition is pretty massive, so it will hurt.

Oh, and I got a Tumblr! If you like this story, you can go to it; I'm posting most Phantom-related stuff, so it might be interesting. And if a roaring mass of you come at me, I might post snippets of FanFiction up there...just saying. :)


	9. Chapter 9

Having too much fun with my Tumblr. Tee hee.

Chapter 9

The next morning, Christine awoke with Gustave in her arms, still sleeping soundly. A small clock on the end table next to her told her it was ten in the morning, an unusually late time for her to wake. She rubbed Gustave's back and he sat up instantly. She wondered at this habit. Raoul was a deep sleeper, and even she, who sometimes took hours to drift into sleep, could not be awoken from her slumber unless someone should blow a horn into her ear. His real father's paternity showing through, she mused…then brushed the thought away. Biologically, Erik was Gustave's father, it was true, but he was no closer to the boy than a stranger on the street.

"Good morning," she whispered to her son.

He blinked at the unfamiliar surroundings, then sighed. "I thought it was a dream." He twisted the thick blankets in his hand as he spoke.

"Ready to go out?" she asked, trying to change the subject.

His small face paled, but he nodded, the very motion suggesting that he was steeling himself for some great battle.

Christine smiled encouragingly and said, "Come, let's get out of bed, then."

She stood, trying to smooth out her rumpled clothing – the same she had been wearing all of yesterday and the day before as well. There was a wardrobe to her left, set a little apart from the vanity table. Inside were clothing of all sorts – dresses, petticoats, nightgowns, gloves and hats and scarves, even (and she blushed slightly) undergarments. She had no doubt that all would fit her perfectly.

But there was nothing for Gustave, not that he cared; she had seen come home with mud splattered all over his front and protest mightily when she had him take a bath. Certainly not his fastidiously well-dressed father's sort of behavior, she found herself thinking. Then she recalled the state of Erik's lair below the opera house, and sighed.

While Gustave was in the adjoining bathroom, she changed into a dark purple dress and overcoat. Her hair she combed out at the table, trying to keep herself from admiring the elegantly tapered comb she was using.

She saw Gustave behind her in the mirror, and smiled at him. "Come over here, Gustave; your hair's a mess." She smoothed out his blonde mop and straightened his shirt. "There now."

He scratched at his neat hair, mussing it up again, eyes widening when he saw her. "Mother, you look so beautiful."

She laughed. "Gustave, I look the same as always."

"No you don't," he insisted. "I never saw you wear that kind of dress with Father." His eyes narrowed. "Did Mr. Y get you that dress, Mother?"

Not Erik, anymore, but Mr. Y. She did not quite meet his eyes when she answered, "No, I found it in the dresser over there."

He peeked inside but soon backed away, not particularly interested in women's clothing. She took his hand and led him outside. He asked in a small voice, "Mother, what are we going to do today?"

"We'll have to ask Erik about that."

"Mother…is he going to keep us with him forever?" And though he tried to conceal it, Christine could see his fear.

So she lied. "No, I don't think so, Gustave. Just until my performance, I think." She looked around Erik's vast workplace, but he was nowhere in sight. She sighed, partly in relief, partly in…disappointment? She shook herself from that thought.

Gustave was silent for a moment. Only when Christine had found a small table and sat down before it did he murmur, "I had another nightmare about him, Mother. Mr. Y."

"Gustave…"

He sneaked a glance behind him and said, in an even lower voice, "He was in the water…Mother, he was trying to drown me!"

She reached out and held him close. "Gustave, shh…it was only a dream."

"Why is he like that, Mother? He's like a…a monster!" He buried his face in her skirts, clinging to her arm.

"Shush, Gustave," she scolded. "He was born that way. He cannot change it, the same way you cannot change your own face." She rubbed the back of his head. Gustave was a child, a sheltered child with little knowledge of how others might feel – the same as her, she realized. She thought long and hard for a moment, trying to find the proper words to explain what had taken her months to find out.

"Gustave," she said, "you have to look deeper down than someone's face. You have to see their mind, their heart, their very soul." She lifted his head up so he could meet her eyes. "The outside of someone…it shows nothing about what is within them. Look with your heart, not just with your eyes." She thought of Erik again. "Sometimes they'll hide it even deeper. They might act and speak and even think in a certain way, but they might be hiding themselves. And you might be scared of them, but if you try hard enough…you'll find their true self."

He probably understood nothing, she thought heavily. But then he said something that made her wonder. "Do you want me to make friends with Mr. Y, Mother?" he asked.

She moved back, gazing at her son. She underestimated his intelligence, his empathy, at times. After a moment of dispassionate observation, Christine said, "If you can. Erik – and his name is Erik, Gustave – has had very few friends in his life, you know."

Gustave seemed to brighten at that. "He's like me, then." The look disappeared to be replaced by a small frown. "He told me he was like me, Mother. Is it true? He played so beautifully, and he knew so many things."

She felt that hard knot seize up again. He is like you in so many other ways, she wanted to say. But the truth would devastate Gustave. So she only said, "Yes, he is a lot like you." She added, "Perhaps if you were to talk to him a bit more, you would see he is not so frightening."

Her son nodded once more. "I will, Mother. I will be his new friend." He grinned. "Do you think if I'm kind to him, he'll let us out earlier? Before the performance?"

She hugged him, feeling a lump in her throat and forcing it down with a quiet laugh. "Of course, Gustave."

And she wondered why she was doing this at all.

Gustave's stomach was starting to growl when Erik finally appeared, from where neither he nor his mother were entirely sure of.

"Oh," he said, apparently forgetting they were there until now. There a very awkward silence followed. Gustave was very glad his stomach chose that moment to growl. It broke the tension, somewhat.

"You must be hungry," Erik said. Gustave thought he detected some embarrassment, and it relaxed him. Erik felt more human when he looked that way. He beckoned the two to another table, then walked into another room. After a little while he came back, saying, "One of my assistants will be coming over with some food."

"I've already met her," said Christine. "Miss Fleck, is it?"

"Yes. That's her." Erik struggled for something more to say. "You…enjoyed the food?"

Christine nodded, looking just as awkward. It puzzled Gustave; they seemed simultaneously close, yet distant. She said, "It was good." She looked at the table. "You weren't there."

A bit of a pause, before he explained, "I don't usually eat that much."

"I see," Christine felt compelled to say. Another silence. Erik looked at Gustave, who flinched back instinctively. A shadow crossed Erik's face; then he turned away, expression as blank as that on his mask. The three stood, Christine leaning against the chair, Gustave behind her, Erik with his back to them.

At long last, they heard a gentle knock and opened the door to see Fleck's form flying down the stairs, the food in a basket sitting at their doorstep.

They ate in silence, the food spread out on heavy, plain ceramic plates. Christine said at one point, "Erik, aren't you going to eat?"

"I already ate," he answered brusquely. Yet he stood there, watching them in his unnerving manner. Gustave found himself quickly losing his appetite. How could his mother tell him to try and find the beauty in this man? He was so strange.

When they were finished Erik stood and told Christine to go to the piano with him. Christine obeyed, though she looked nervous.

"I have sung it through, Erik," she started to say.

He ignored her. "We shall start," he said, not even glancing at the instrument, "with some breathing exercises."

Gustave felt a surge of indignation that was mirrored on Christine's face. He had seen his mother sing, though not in public, many times before, and she had always done the obligatory warm-ups. When he had asked her, she had told him that her teacher had drilled it into her so much that she would feel odd not doing it.

"I can do that on my own-" she retorted.

"Do it," he ordered. "And correct your posture."

She straightened almost automatically. "Shall we do scales next?" she asked with a hint of sarcasm.

He inclined his head, sitting at the piano and placing his fingers on the keys. Christine, warmed up, watched him, waiting for the first notes.

Then he played, with a careful hesitation that soon disappeared as Christine started to sing. And even though it was only a series of notes, ascending and descending, Gustave felt himself entranced by the way his mother's voice wove so skillfully with the music. Yet at the same time, Erik seemed to be following her lead, adjusting the notes to her voice – and before he knew what was happening his mother was singing the aria.

"Who knows when love begins…Who knows what makes it start…One day it's simply there…Alive inside your heart…"

When it was over his mother was breathless, yet with a rosy blush over her cheeks and a sparkling happiness to her eyes. Gustave applauded, an audience of one. Her flush deepened as she swept a bow to her young son.

When she turned to Erik, Gustave saw something – perhaps a glint of admiration, even joy – pass from his eyes.

"You are out of practice and not emoting," snapped Erik. "There is no passion to it. This is a love aria, Christine. You have to feel it."

Christine felt years too old for criticism, yet somehow under her old teacher's comments, all she could do was nod meekly and try again.

"Better," said Erik after the second run-through. "Again."

She took a breath that did not feel like quite enough, as Erik started playing the piece again, with a fierceness that he had managed to control but which was starting to make itself known.

"Worse," Erik snapped. "Again. Feel the emotions! And there is too much vibrato in the last notes – make it smooth, let it flow naturally from you!"

And so on. For Christine it was more difficult than any piece she had performed, even Erik's scandalous opera. There, the music had been passionate, tempestuous, requiring emotional heights she had never reached. But this song, while sharing the same composer, was at once similar and different. It spoke of love on all levels – physical, mental, emotional; it was of love that reached across time and space, instead of one in the moment; it was softer, yet more universal.

Still she sang, trying with all her heart to reach the feelings she knew the song contained, yet it seemed she always fell short.

To Gustave it seemed that that his mother had reached perfection every time, yet it never seemed enough for Erik. There was no praise, but neither was there criticism; all he did was command Christine to sing once more. And more. Gustave thought at first that this was how his mother had been trained, but her growing puzzlement forced him to dismiss this theory.

"Again! You-"

But Christine had had enough. "Erik! I am tired! I cannot sing anymore! Stop!"

He stopped, stood up, that fleeting embarrassment crossing his face once more. "I am sorry, Christine," he said, and he sounded quite sincere saying it. After a little pause, he offered, "Would you like to have lunch?"

Had they been singing for so long? Gustave looked around but there was no clock he could see standing nearby, and the corners and far ends of the room were too shadowed for him to make out anything.

Christine stepped gracefully aside. "I would. Gustave…"

Gustave joined her, but looked longingly back at the piano. He had not thought such a man – such a strange, monstrous-looking man – could produce such beautiful notes from that instrument – songs he had only dreamed about, unable to grasp when he awoke. Perhaps, he mused, this was what his mother meant by looking inside a person. She had once told him of an opera singer who was quite fair of face, but who could not sing one note properly…

When lunch was over, Erik allowed Christine to rest. He offered her bookshelves of thick, leather-bound volumes, automatons small and large, sitting in their metal cages (with only one mysteriously empty), or several instruments, a few of which Gustave had never seen before, with accompanying songs. The songs – arias, orchestrations, duets, and so many other kinds – were hand-written (Had Erik written these himself? Gustave wondered) but faded and yellowing at the corners.

Christine, her hand on Gustave's shoulder, chose to read a book. Gustave, though, had no wish to read, not when there were so many musical instruments around. He whispered an excuse to his mother and left her side, searching for Mr. Y.

He found the man at the opposite end of the long room, the farthest point from Christine as he could possibly go. He was engrossed in some tiny mechanical automaton, enough that he didn't sense Gustave even when the boy was right at his side.

"Mr. Y – erm, Erik?"

Erik spun around so quickly he knocked over his automaton. Cursing, he set it upright, then turned to stare down at Gustave once more.

"Sir…you play the piano very well," Gustave said. When Erik said nothing, Gustave continued, "I was wondering… could you teach me to play the way you do?" He thought for a moment. "And to compose?"

There was just stunned silence on Erik's end. Gustave was starting to wonder if his mother wasn't wrong about everything when Erik finally said, "I…can." He started to move his hand towards the boy, as if to put it on Gustave's shoulder, then jerked back and settled with leading the boy to the piano.

"Did you write that aria for Mother?" asked Gustave as they walked. Christine looked up as they moved closer and nodded gently at her son for encouragement.

"I…did."

"It was so good!"

"Thank you." Erik seemed ill at ease with flattery – or maybe just with Gustave in general. He sat at the piano, staring at the keys as if they were poisonous spiders.

Gustave moved instinctively to play, then paused and asked, "May I?" Erik indicated for him to go on. The boy closed his eyes and started to play, ignoring the quiet mechanical ticking of the automatons, the occasional flip of the page from his mother, and Erik's own intense stare.

Presently he stopped. When he looked up it was to see Erik, bent so close to him it was discomfiting, yet with a serene calm. His eyes, too, were closed, but they opened when the music ended.

"Why did you stop?" he demanded.

Gustave frowned. "I…I can't think of anything." He struggled to find the right words. "It's…I can hear it…but I can't get it down…" He looked helplessly at the man. Nobody, not his friends, not his father, not even his mother, could ever quite understand this problem.

But Erik nodded. "You can hear it, but you can't seem to play it." He placed his fingers on the keys and seemed to sigh. "I never had the problem before, but after…well, no matter…but…" He played a few keys, eyes losing their focus. After a moment of tentative music, he murmured, "You just have to keep trying new harmonies…"

Gustave ran his fingers down the keys, pressing one at random. "Like this?"

Erik glanced over, breaking free of his reverie. "Certainly. But how about…" And he played another tune, though there was a certain undertone to it that Gustave didn't like. It chilled him.

"No," he declared. "I don't like that." At Erik's incredulous look, he quickly said, "It's nice! But it's all so dark." He moved up the scale, imitating the notes but on a lighter tone. "I like it better this way."

"You do not enjoy the darkness of the music?" Erik smirked. "It seems the melodies you hear are leading to it…" He demonstrated as he spoke, fingers playing some of the most mournful chords Gustave had ever heard.

"I…like it," admitted Gustave, "but can you teach me to write happier music? Mother says music can…can…" He tried to remember what his mother had told him. "She said music is like your feelings. I think. She said if I write well enough, then people can tell if I was happy or sad or angry when I wrote it. But I want to make people happier, so she told me to write happy music." At least, he thought that was what she had said.

Erik laughed, but not in a nice way. "The world is not a happy place, child. And not everyone's emotions are so full of…light."

"But they should," argued Gustave, forgetting himself.

"They should, yet they aren't."

"But I want it to be!"

"You cannot want something and expect it to happen, boy!" Erik snarled. He slammed the lid over the piano, almost bringing it down on Gustave's hands, though the boy was quick enough to pull back in time. "Enough music. I must see to my work."

"What work?" Gustave would not let the man's temper tantrum deter him. He hopped off the piano seat and followed Erik. "You were working on something else before. Can I see it?"

"No! It is unfinished."

Gustave ran to catch up. "Can I see something else?" He ran to what looked like a gorilla combined with an octopus combined with an organ. "What is this?"

Erik pulled Gustave away. "That is a mechanical gorilla."

Gustave had no idea what a gorilla was. But he did notice, "It's connected to an organ." Gustave tugged free and leaned in closer.

"Yes, when I can't play…I let it make the music for me."

"It makes music?" Gustave exclaimed. He touched it.

With a blaring crash the gorilla's arms started working, jerking up and down like pistons and slamming the keys. A shatteringly loud music started, devoid of any of the beautiful melodies Gustave had heard before.

"Get away, boy!" Erik yelled, tossing Gustave aside to turn it off. When the music was over he rounded on him, shouting, "Do not touch my things again, do you hear me?"

Gustave got up the floor and ran back, smacking into his mother, who had come rushing over, book still in hand.

"Erik!"

"Tell your son to keep away from my creations!" Erik shouted.

She said calmly, "He is his father's son, too, Erik. Do you expect him not to be intrigued by your work?" She looked down to where Gustave was hiding behind her, and tugged at his hand. "Come on out, Gustave. There is nothing to be scared of."

Gustave mumbled something indiscernible.

"Gustave speak up," whispered Christine.

The boy pulled his head from her dress and yelled, "I want to go home!"

Both Erik and Christine went white. "Gustave…" Christine said helplessly.

"I don't like it here!" Gustave shouted, not wanting to cry or show any weakness but unable to keep a few tears from spilling over. "I want to go home!"

Christine kneeled down in front, blocking Gustave's view of Erik. Pulling out a handkerchief, she wiped away his tears. "Gustave, in a few days, we can go home."

"I want to go now," he muttered, pushing her hand back.

"We can't right now, remember? But after my performance…we will." She patted his cheek. "All right, Gustave? We'll go home then." Gustave wiped away residual tears and nodded. She smiled weakly. "Good, Gustave. Why don't you go…go read one of Erik's books? Over there." She pointed.

He nodded and walked away, though in a more glum fashion than previously. Only when he had settled on a sofa and was deeply enthralled in a volume half his size did she go to Erik, who was pounding out thundering chords on his piano.

"You frightened him," she said accusingly.

When he didn't answer she grabbed his shoulder. He turned to gaze at her hand.

"Erik, you scared him!" she hissed.

Another long silence.

"You did not need to shout at him," she said, feeling as if she were stepping over a line always known but never spoken of. There had never been a point when she had dared to lecture Erik as if he were the student. "Erik? He was only curious. There was no need to get angry."

Erik stopped playing. For a moment all was quiet.

"The children were the ones who laughed the most," he said suddenly.

"What?"

"The children. They laughed at me the most when my mask was off. Or they screamed." He wasn't looking at her. "Why should my own flesh and blood be any different?"

She sat down, her hand falling to her side. "Erik, what are you talking about?"

He continued to stare, not at her, but at some spot in the air before him. "When I was younger, some gypsies found me and put me on display. The adults, I expected no pity from them. Not when my own mother hated me. But the children…oh, how I have heard of the vaunted innocence of children, their purity…and perhaps you would think they would feel sympathy for a fellow child in a cage? But no, they were the cruelest, oftentimes…"

Christine felt sympathy, sharp and unexpected, slice at her. "Oh, Erik…"

He turned sharply and said, "I did not tell you this for pity, Christine." He started to play, though the tune was not so much angry as mournful. "You wished to know why I would react so harshly. That is why." He let the notes end, the sounds disappearing into the echoing of his cavernous home, so similar to the one he had inhabited at the bottom of the opera house.

She let the room fall into silence once more. "Did you not have another parent or relative to take care of you?" she asked quietly. "A father, an aunt or uncle?"

"My father died before I was born," he said tonelessly. "I knew of no other relatives. And as I said, my mother hated me. She was always grateful my father had not lived to see my face." His hand went automatically to his mask, then dropped back down. "I ran away when I was young. That is how the gypsies found me, with my mask… My mother's only gift to me. I…." He drew a shuddering breath. "I asked…on my birthday…for a kiss. Just a kiss…not even on this deformed side of my face…on the good part…she wouldn't give it to me…" He lifted suddenly defenseless eyes to Christine's stunned face. "Christine…you were the only one…who ever gave me such a gift…"

She could not keep herself from touching his cheek, and though it was such a little thing he closed his eyes and just… sighed, one of pure content. Feeling suddenly, perversely disloyal – could anything that made him feel this happy be right – she moved back, then felt the terrible urge to go back – how could anything that made him that happy be wrong?

"Christine," Erik said after a moment, eyes still closed. "You said you were afraid of me…"

She looked away. "I was…"

"Of this?" He didn't move but she knew what he was referring to.

"No…Well…Perhaps…but it was never your face that really frightened me."

He stared at her now, an echo of her own accusation gazing reflecting back at her. "Then what made you run from me?" It was a question loaded with ten years of his own doubts and his worst fears.

"Your anger," she said simply. "Your crimes. Your obsession."

There followed yet another of those long silences. Not even the turning of a page from the book Gustave was holding could break it.

"Erik," she said, suddenly struck by an idea. "There's only three days left before I perform, isn't there?"

"Yes."

"Do you think…?" And here she lifted her face up to his once more, unsure of how he would take her suggestion. Certainly it was not born out of pity, or an attempt to escape. No, what really possessed her to do this was almost morbid curiosity. "Do you think, Erik…you would like to spend just a normal day with us? Just go outside and… and enjoy the park, with Gustave and I?"

All was silent.

Then he stood up so violently he knocked the piano seat back and out from under her; she fell to the floor and scrambled up in time to see him shouting, "A normal day? A normal day?" He lunged at her, pushing her against the wall. "For what, Christine? To run away from me again? To escape to your precious Vicomte?"

"No! Erik!"

"Or is this pity? Are you going to spend one normal day with me and then expect me to let you go running away again? Do you think that this one normal day will somehow show me the error of my ways and you will have a precious happy ending where you leave the monster's lair to go back to your handsome husband?"

"Please, Erik!"

"And have you let the thought pass through your precious head, Christine, that I might not be able to go out? Or do you think I enjoy being called a 'freak' and a 'monster', that I want people to scream and faint as I pass by?"

"Erik – you're hurting me!"

He released her, panting and stumbling back as if wounded. "Christine…" To her shock, she realized he was crying, his anger gone as quick as it had come. "Christine…I would give…anything…for a normal day…anything…with you…and the boy…"

She pulled her hand back slowly, rubbing at it.

He clutched at her dress, falling to his knees and almost crawling towards her. "Christine…if I promise to let you out…" He twisted back into himself, begging her. "Please…don't run…please…"

She sobbed brokenly, going down beside him. At that moment he was neither Phantom nor Angel of Music, nor even the mysterious Mr. Y. He was only Erik, a lonely man pleading for a gift he had never received before.

"I won't," she whispered, clasping his hand in both of hers. "I promise, Erik…I won't."

* * *

Some people have Fluffy!Erik. Some have Dark!Erik. I have Bipolar!Erik.

This chapter feels off-kilter from the rest in terms of writing. Sigh.


	10. Chapter 10

Thanks to all those who review. :) I see I got some new people too.

So I've been having a rough few days, so here's a new chapter. Maybe it will make you lovely readers happier than I am now.

Chapter 10

Raoul ground his teeth. "I think it has been more than enough time!" he shouted at the obstinate police officer. "Why aren't your men searching for my wife and son?"

The police man said brusquely, "Even if it has been, sir, that does not mean we will go looking. Plenty of people disappear for a day or so in Coney Island, and they eventually show up, safe and sound."

"You said you needed only a day! And it has been two!"

"My men are quite busy." In contrast to Raoul's rising tone, the police man was quite calm. "That is standard procedure, Coney Island is anything but that. A week, sir, is actually closer to what we do. And there is much worse crime on this island than a missing boy and wife."

Raoul swept out of the office in a rage. Part of this was because he had never been treated in so cavalier a manner back in France, where as part of the wealthy nobility, the authorities had jumped to fulfill his orders. But most of it was because he knew exactly where Christine and Gustave were, and the police were making no effort to help him.

Christine and Gustave were missing. In the hands of that foul monster, no less, one whom he had thought was gone forever – one Raoul had fervently hoped had rotted in his gloomy caverns. But this Phantom had been playing with them, apparently knowing enough about his situation to play at his weakest points – and that, combined with his own internal misery at having his family go missing, was driving Raoul mad with grief.

Christine, Christine…what could he be doing to her? Did you think that I would harm her? No, but he had wanted to marry her – marry, as if Christine would have him, as if there were any more of a mismatched couple in the world… as if this might somehow condone any further actions with Christine…

And Gustave…his brilliant young son, was there too. And there Raoul didn't want to think, for if this Phantom didn't want to harm Christine, he certainly did not think that protection would extend to her son…Raoul's son… the son of a hated rival…

Phantasma was once again filled with people, but this time the chattering crowds, the bright young couples, the little clusters of husbands and wives and children, made Raoul ache with longing for his own family. He plunged his way through, shoving through some more than disgruntled walkers, until he had reached a bar.

"Give me one," he commanded roughly.

The bartender set down some foul looking brew, which he swallowed down immediately, gasping at the strength of the liquor and the foul taste. Even as it burned in his throat, he ordered, "Another."

Glancing him over discreetly, the bartender set down another. Raoul took this at a more leisurely pace, taking some time to survey his surroundings. Dank, gloomy, the other customers barely shadows, and with the horrible reek of sweat and alcohol and vomit in the air.

The door opened, letting in a bright shaft of sunlight that disappeared swiftly as it shut. Plopping down beside Raoul was a young woman, her beauty noticeable even in the darkness. Raoul blinked; she looked familiar, but the potent alcohol was making his head whirl and he could not concentrate enough to make his memory work.

"One please," the girl said, in a high, sweet voice completely out of place in her setting.

Her voice brought the memory back. Raoul almost shouted, "You're the girl! The one on the beach with the – the suit – and – and the towel! The one in the show! That beauty – bathing beauty!"

Only after did he realize he was on a ramble, but the girl (possibly used to reactions of this kind) giggled piercingly and nodded. "I am! How did you recognize me?"

He shook his head, a bad idea as the bar began to swirl. "I – your voice. You had a lovely voice."

She blushed. "Thank you. I took lessons with a very good teacher before. But I'm going to be upstaged by Miss Daaé, I think." This was said in a most contented tone; she was apparently not afraid of losing any prestige. This theory of Raoul's was confirmed when she shrugged her delicate shoulders and continued, "But she will be only here for a day – and it will be so much fun to see the Soprano of the Century on stage again!"

Raoul groaned. Her voice was lovely, but it grated on his aching head, woozy head. "You have heard my – Miss Daae sing before?"

"No," she murmured, pouting, "but I've heard so much of her. They say she has the loveliest voice in France – that she can hit the highest notes and make it look easy. 'As clear as a bell', they said!" She laughed. "She was my hero, you know, even if I've never heard her sing. But in two days, I think I can!"

He blinked. "Two days?"

"Of course! Mr. Y is opening the concert hall just for the occasion. They're putting up posters as we speak!"

"Mr. Y?" Raoul's head cleared; he stood and grabbed the girl's pale arms. "Listen – you know Mr. Y, right?"

She stared at him, his intense manner disturbing her. "I – yes – we all do," she said hesitantly.

"Could you take me to him?" demanded Raoul. "Please, I need to – to see him!"

"Well – no, I – Mr. Y said specifically that he doesn't want to be disturbed-"

"Please!" Raoul shouted, now shaking her, starting to attract stares from the others. "Please, my wife and son are missing! I need his help!"

This touched something in the girl; she bit her lip but finally acquiesced. "All right. This way."

The two left the bar, she chattering nervously. "We'll only go to the entrance, all right? Mr. Y told us that he alone for the next few days – not until after the performance – you can get there once we're out of Phantasma, though, right? I – I don't want to get him angry – he is so frightening when angry-"

"Yes, I've heard" said Raoul vaguely, rushing so fast he was almost overtaking her, though only she knew the way.

They were nearing the back entrance, the girl's fear growing more palpable with every step. "Just to the back, all right? You can go the rest on your own, right? I can't be seen-"

"Yes, yes, of course," Raoul soothed her.

"Oh dear – it's just, Mr. Y is so terribly – I mustn't let him – and I don't even know – your name – what is your name?" She gasped and quickly ran on. "Never mind, sir! Its better I don't know!"

"Miss!" Raoul caught her arm once more, feeling a keen sense of vindication at her distress. This respected Mr. Y could surely not be as great as everyone said he was if he could inspire this fear. "Miss, it will be fine! Listen, just give me directions…and I'll come back to you later, if you wish."

"Oh!" She sagged in relief. "Thank you, sir! You mustn't think Mr. Y is a fiend!" Too late, Raoul thought wryly. "He is so very kind to us, the freaks especially – not at all like those down in the other parks! But he was so terribly angry when one of the girls went up his tower once…"

Raoul replied hastily, "Yes, of course. But you needn't worry, I can help you…I am the Vicomte de Chagny, Miss, and if you get into trouble, I can find you a suitable job elsewhere."

She put a hand to her mouth. "The…the Vicomte?" Her skin went chalk white; she backed away, eyes completely frightened. "I – I can't! I'm sorry – I can't!" She ran.

Raoul was in shock, giving her a few seconds to disappear into the crowd. Realizing his only lifeline was escaping, he pursued her, shouting, "Miss! Come back!" He spurred himself, dashing back even as her slim frame winked out of sight. Then he was running, seeing a peek of her gaudy costume, a flash of her dress, but always blocked by people. Forcing aside a couple he saw a glimpse of her reddish hair and turned sharply, shoving the crowd aside in his hurry.

"Miss! Wait! Stop!"

His voice only made her run faster. She suddenly ducked into a crowd, Raoul fast on her heels – but when he was through she was nowhere in sight. Frantic, she spun around, hoping for some lucky sighting of her.

"Miss! Come back! Please!"

But she was gone.

* * *

Gustave crept back to Erik, watching him as he put the finishing touches on a small little man at a piano. Erik looked up and offered a tentative smile. Gustave grinned back.

Finishing, Erik stood back, then told Gustave, "Press here." He indicated the automaton's back.

Gustave glanced at him with some puzzlement, then pushed the figure. It leaned forward – almost as if it were about to play – then started jerking its arms up and down. A tinkling melody emerged.

Gustave laughed out loud. "It's wonderful!"

Erik inclined his head, though looking a little puzzled at such mood whiplash.

"What does this do?" Gustave had wandered to the skeleton butler. Erik stepped by him and touched his shoulder, tugging him back with the gentlest of pulls.

The skeleton sprang to life with startling quickness; it hopped out of its cage and bowed, then swiped out the tray Gustave had seen it holding. With mechanical twitchiness it filled a glass with wine and handed it to Gustave.

"I knew it! It's a butler!" Gustave exclaimed. He reached for the wine and was surprised when Erik swiped it out of reach.

"No wine for you," Erik said.

"But Mother and Father let me-"

"No." Erik put it aside. But he softened at Gustave's little pout. "Come. Let me show you my mechanical organ."

"The one with the gorilla?" asked Gustave, trotting behind in an effort to keep up with Erik's long strides.

"Yes. That one." He moved around it, beckoned Gustave over, and started explaining everything about it – how to adjust the tempo and volume of playing, how to make it play the music he wanted or how to configure it to create its own music…

* * *

"Mother, how did you meet Mr. Y?"

Christine smoothed out the bed sheets, buying time for herself. "When I was a child," she said. "He taught me how to sing."

"He can sing, too?" Gustave whispered. "Is he better than you?"

"Oh, much better," she answered, a strange smile playing over her lips. "And he was so many other things besides… a composer, an architect, a musician…and he was so learned…he knew everything there was to know, it seemed…"

"And he taught you everything?"

"Yes…and he was a very good teacher." Once again, that mysterious smile. It was starting to puzzle Gustave.

He asked, "How did you meet?"

She wondered how much to tell him. Her son was a curious boy; moreover, he could make connections and see things others did not. Inevitably her answers would lead to more questions, more queries, until she had to tell the entire, terrible tale – and that was not something her son needed to hear.

So she only said, "At the opera house, when I was a little girl. He found me in the chapel and taught me for many years…and eventually he helped me to get the lead role in an opera."

Gustave's eyes were wide. "He did all that? Why?"

That queer smile again. "I suppose…because he loved me."

Her son's eyes ran over her face. "But you loved Father."

She dipped her head. "Yes. And Erik found out. He was…not happy. But eventually, he let me go."

"Why?"

"Because…he wanted me to be happy." She had twisted the covers between her fingers until they were tight little knots. She laughed, feeling a cry starting to come up. "Because he loved me, even though I didn't love him." Good God, why was she telling all this to her son? Because, her mind said, nobody, not Meg, not Raoul, not even she herself, had been able to see this…not for a long time.

Gustave curled up next to her. "Mother?"

"Hmm?"

"Where did he get the…" He indicated the right half of his face.

There was a very long pause. Christine was no longer smiling.

"I don't know," she said at last. "I've never known." Not until today, at least. "I think…I think he was born with it. It has not given him a happy life, Gustave."

"Does it hurt him?"

"I don't know." After thinking a moment, she said, "Perhaps not physically. But in his mind, in his heart…yes. I think it has hurt him."

Gustave seemed to have no more questions. She turned off the light and joined her son under the covers. Within moments his breathing had softened into the slow, heavy sighs of sleep. Christine lay in the dark for a long time, stroking his hair gently and thinking about tomorrow.

A normal day with Erik.

No, it was not pity that had compelled her to do this, though goodness knows she did not blame Erik for this. Perhaps…it was more a wondering, a morbid curiosity at what could have been…at what might have happened should she have actually married Erik…perhaps if she had chosen to stay with him, instead of leaving only his plaintive plea of love…if he had chosen to stay with her in that cabin, too…

She felt as nervous as the girl she had once been. Something had died within her…she had quietly dubbed it Little Lotte. Little Lotte could no longer afford to think of nothing.

But as she curled up in bed, contemplating what was to come, she wanted nothing more than to go back to being that naïve, innocent girl…before she had to learn to keep secrets, to tear away at them…before her father had died and the Angel of Music descended on her.

* * *

Coney Island came alive at night, but one point remained shrouded from the light, at least to Raoul. At the very far end of Phantasma, accessible only on foot through a hidden back entrance from the park, was a point the freaks had nicknamed the Aerie.

Ironic, thought Raoul. The Phantom of the Opera had inhabited the point closest to Hell. Now he was trying to reach Heaven instead.

It took half an hour of careful searching to find the door; it was so dark, and so well-camouflaged he doubted he would have found it in the light. There were no cracks or lines or any other tell-tale signs, not so much as a doorway or a handle or even a lock. Which meant there was no way to open it.

Raoul had found the door through pure luck – he had pounded on the walls in frustration and heard suddenly not the hard, dull thud of his fist against stone, but a hollow one. He had stood, puzzled, for a moment, then pounded at the structure again, carefully, experimenting all around with the walls. Then, and only then, had he realized he had been standing in front of the door, so expertly crafted as to look like part of the tower. It was located where one would not expect a door to be – not facing Phantasma, nor near the sea, but in a corner without a view of either.

But he could not get in. He had been fearful of hitting it further – would the Phantom not hear him? To hell with the Phantom, the irrational part of his mind shouted, and after a fruitless search for a knob, a key hole, even a crack to put his fingers in, he had resorted to trying to batter the door down, first with his hands, then with nearby stones. But nothing could shake it.

Finally he leaned against it, an utter hopelessness entering his soul. The deformed monster was holding his family captive – and here he was, at the entrance to his lair, yet unable to enter it. A deep, consuming anger formed within his mind. Damn him, damn the man for haunting him for so many years. Damn him to hell for the torment he was putting him through.

He squeezed his eyes shut, tears welling out. He thought of pure, beautiful Christine, a captive in the tower; of Gustave, his spirit crushed in his prison…and Raoul knew then, that he would do anything to get them back. If he could still get them back…but no, he could not think of life without them. It was not possible.

He would find them. Somehow he would. And if they should be dead, wounded, destroyed in mind or spirit… he would do what he should have done ten years ago, his own life be damned.

* * *

_Old habits_, Erik's mind hissed at him. _Ten years of normality, and you revert back to form in a day._

He snapped at that part of his mind and let himself watch Christine and Gustave in peace.

Erik had only once sat by Christine's side when she slept. When she was quite young, she had still suffered nightmares, and could sleep only with a candle lit. Sometimes they were so bad not even the comforting sound of his voice could soothe her. Then, and only then (and only for a few moments at the most), he had dared to venture out from the tunnels to sit by her side. Somehow she had sensed his physical presence, and in her sleepy state had associated with her father. She had muttered as much when he slept.

That had been before he had been overtaken by the fierce, desperate desire to possess her, a feeling only the most romantic fool could claim as love.

Obsession seemed more appropriate. Certainly, his frantic actions during his last days at the opera house could be termed as such. It had not been until the very last moment that he had experienced the exquisitely painful emotion he had finally acknowledged as love. Then, his need to possess Christine had warred with the hopeless acknowledgement that her heart belonged elsewhere and that she could only be happy with this person, who was not him. And love had won. But the battle, the final surrendering, had driven a bone-deep weariness in him that had taken ten years of furious work to dispel.

Just watching her brought back an old ache. He had lived for ten years, trying to reignite his old compulsions. He had tried to write music, had failed – every note seemed to echo one he had taught Christine, seemed to lead to a song that could only be for her, performed by her. He had thrown himself into his business, into his books, into his automatons, into anything that might distract him. He had realized the futility of this action when he started to sculpt, with increasing fervor, the automaton of Christine now carefully hidden away. And finally, he had tried to convince himself that he could love someone else – he had seen many others, as lovelorn as he, pick themselves up and find happiness in another. Yet all he saw, with any woman, was Christine.

_Just a normal day, Erik._

How did this girl – this woman – possess the ability to drive him to bouts of rage, to reduce him to a pitiful child, with just a few words? His famed self-control had been nothing when confronted with her; from the moment he had heard her sobbing in the chapel, he found he would do whatever she asked of him.

He moved across the bed to where Gustave lay sleeping. Here his thoughts grew confused. Lying before him was a son. His son. Christine's son.

He would have expected any child of his to be as hideous as he. But this boy was perfectly formed, both halves of his round face matching one another. He kneeled down, examining him more closely. He had Christine's gentle, forgiving nature – but the hair, the nose, the mouth…all his. And his musical ability, too, and possibly his genius… but where Erik was a creature of darkness, this precious boy was meant for the light. He seemed to glow with a spirit that Erik knew could not have come from his father.

Did the Vicomte know? His mouth curled upward in a sneer. Raoul de Chagny had kept Christine for ten years, but he, Erik, had triumphed over him in so many more ways. And Erik knew that in the end, he would hold Christine's heart.

_A normal day…_

Damn her. Trying to tempt him with dreams of the impossible. How had he been driven in so deep? The plan had been to hear her sing once more, to let the music ignite the flames of love he knew she still possessed – for him, not for the Vicomte. Yet here Christine was, sleeping under his roof while the Vicomte searched desperately – and a victory even he had not expected, a son.

She would sing his song…and then…Erik dared not think of what would happen then. It could only work…there was no chance of failure. He did not know what he would do if he should fail.

Gustave rolled closer to his mother, the movement causing Erik to freeze in place. He could not forget the boy's scream of horror as he beheld Erik's face. Not even for Christine had he held such hope for acceptance. But, he thought, lip curling, he should have expected such a reaction. If not even his own mother could love him, why should he expect any better from his son?

Disgusted with himself, with this boy, with the whole of humanity, he turned away, finding it was becoming easier to brush off Gustave's rejection of him…but not so much the gleam in the boy's eyes when he had shown him the little mechanical piano player.

* * *

It's just ANOTHER DAAAAAAYYYYY!

Yeah, I'm a _Next to Normal _fan. Heh. If you don't know what that is, check it out. What _RENT_ did for AIDS, I think _Next to Normal_ will do the same for mental illness. Awesome musical, there.

And I am aware I just spoiled the entire mood there. No need to tell me. XD


	11. Chapter 11

Long chapter. I spoil you guys.

Chapter 11

Gustave was shaken awake by his mother.

"Gustave, come," she whispered, smiling. "Erik is taking us outside."

He almost leaped into his clothing, so excited was he by this piece of news. He was going out! He was going to feel the warmth of the sunlight, hear the seagulls overhead, and maybe his mother might buy him one of those delicious potato slices they had eaten a few days before…

It felt so long ago. Like another lifetime ago. Being stuck in this tower for so long was…disorienting. He didn't know what was going on outside – he could neither see nor hear Phantasma, or for that matter the rest of the world, from this tower. There were no windows. With a brief shock he realized he had not thought of his father for all these days.

"Mother!" he exclaimed. "What do you think has happened to Father?"

She turned swiftly. "Your father?" Then her face cleared. "Raoul…I don't know, Gustave…I don't know…" She sat on the bed, holding her head. "I hope he is well…"

"Do you…do you think he is searching for us?" asked Gustave.

She looked off into the distance, eyes clouded. "Yes…of course he would be…" She wiped at her face.

Gustave took out his handkerchief and gave it to her. She smiled and pushed it back. "I'm all right, Gustave," she assured him. Taking his hand, she said, "Just enjoy the day, all right? Just pretend we're outside with Father. Can you do that? With Erik?"

He questioned it, but his little boy trustfulness in his mother didn't bother looking into it too deeply. And besides, he was growing to like Erik. "Yes, Mother." Erik had been kinder to him later, after his mother had scolded him. He had watched them from his place, pretending to read but really listening to them. And then…he had seen Erik cry. He had never seen any men cry. Women cried; men didn't. But Erik had sobbed and clutched at his mother like she was his mother. And Gustave did not know how he felt about that.

And so he had tried to ask this of his mother, but that had only confused him more. Because his mother had said that Erik had loved her. But that was impossible, because Father loved Mother, and no one else could love her.

Or could they?

Erik stared at his mother a lot. He had noticed this. He had stared at her during breakfast, and stared at her when she was reading. And when he didn't stare at her, Gustave felt that Erik wanted to but couldn't. Or wouldn't. Or shouldn't. He wasn't sure which. Maybe the last one. Sometimes, when other people stared at his mother too much, his father would become angry and knock them away. His mother would always scold Father the way she did Gustave, but she also looked secretly happy at the same time.

But did staring a lot mean love? In school he had seen a girl who had been very pretty. He had looked at her a lot then, wondering if it would be nice to take her hand, maybe, or to show her some of his music. His mother and father had not been helpful. They had looked at each other and shared that little smile which meant they were keeping something from him, and told him he would understand when he was older.

"Gustave?" called his mother from her table. "Are you ready?"

"Yes, Mother."

"Good." She pinned up her long hair and got up. She was wearing a simple, light gown of palest pink, unadorned with any jewelry, hair uncovered by hat or veil. She held out her hand, which Gustave took. "Come along then, Gustave."

They met Erik outside, dressed not in his usual formal suit, but in a white shirt and black silk pants. He shot Christine a gaze then hurried it away to look at Gustave, then seemed to decide that none of them was safe to look at and settled with staring at the wall. After a tense silence, he cleared his throat and asked them, "What would you like to do?"

Christine went up to him and took his arm, holding it in hers. As he stared at their entwined limbs, she said, "I would like to go to the beach – an empty part, preferably. Gustave wants to learn how to swim."

He was still looking at her, holding him. Taking a shuddering breath, he nodded.

* * *

The beaches were always crowded, particularly at this time of year, but Erik found them a secluded spot that was quite empty of tourists.

"Your own part of the beach, Erik? Entirely to yourself? Rather selfish of you, isn't it?" she teased gently.

He looked at her in surprise, but decided to take her fun in stride. "I am the owner of one of the only parks on the island," he said. "I can afford to-"

"-kick everyone off your own private stretch?" she finished with mock seriousness.

"Of course."

She nodded, then added, as if it were a mere throwaway thought, "You know, I saw another park being built… an up-and-coming one, I heard…I forget the name…Mountain…Slope…something…"

"Steeplechase," Erik said. He waved the name aside as if it were of no concern. "It won't last."

A sly smile from her. "Of course it won't." To her son, she called, "Not too far, Gustave!"

The boy had long since let go of her restraining hand and run on ahead. Christine let him go, but continued to hold Erik's arm.

Yet Gustave stopped at the waves, looking at the vast sea before them. It looked so endless, so strange and deep. He backed away as little waves foamed at his feet, then ran back to his mother.

"Go on, Gustave," she said, pushing him back. "You wanted to swim, right?"

"But Father was going to teach me," he protested as he was led back. "What if I get pulled under? What if I can't get back to the surface? What if something grabs me and I can't get back up? What if-"

She silenced him. "Hush now. We'll teach you. Won't we, Erik?"

He shot her a stare that clearly said, 'Are you insane?' Gustave's look bore a similar look, though his was less disbelief and more sheer fright.

"You know how to swim, don't you, Erik?" Christine asked sweetly.

He bit back his retort – 'Of course I know how, I spent half my life living on a lake' – and settled with not answering at all. Christine held back a smile and told Gustave, "Yes, he'll teach you. Go on Gustave."

Gustave grabbed onto his mother, dragging her ear down to his mouth.

"Mother! No!"

"Gustave," she said sternly, "you wanted someone to teach you…"

"He'll hurt me!" her son whispered fiercely. "I had a dream…"

"He will not hurt you," she scolded, aware that Erik could likely hear every word. "I promise you, Gustave, he will do nothing to you. Now go into the water."

Gustave's face was one of absolute terror, but his mother was immovable. He released her sleeve and walked hesitantly into the waves, looking back constantly at them.

Christine now gave Erik a look. He matched her stare and didn't budge.

So she sighed and promptly shoved him into the water.

He, caught off guard, fell into the rather shallow water with a tremendous splash.

For a moment Erik was in shock due to the cold, the wetness, and the fact that meek little Christine would never have dared to do that back at the opera house. Then he heard Gustave, and Christine, laughing at him.

"How dare you-!" he sputtered. Then he grabbed Christine's still-outstretched arm and flung her into the water.

She shrieked. "Erik!" Another great splash. Her dress soaked, her hair in disarray, she struggled for a moment before realizing the water was only calf-high.

Rushing up with great difficulty, and with an entire lack of dignity, she grabbed the highly amused Erik's arm and dragged him down with her.

"There, now!" she cried. "See how you like it! Getting my dress all wet!" She stood, laughing hysterically, trying to wring the water from, well, everywhere.

Erik spat out some water and said, with entirely too much haughtiness, "You, madam, are the one who threw me in here in the first place." He adjusted his mask and flung the water from his sleeves.

"I? You were the stubborn one who refused to get into the water!" She wobbled, her dress weighing her down.

"Um, Mother?"

Both turned to look at Gustave, who had fastidiously stood away from their water fight.

"Could I learn how to swim now?"

She laughed, feeling like a child being reprimanded by her parent. "Of course, Gustave! Come here."

He drew closer and yelped as she pulled the same trick on him as she had Erik. "Mother!" he sputtered, realizing the water was only a few inches deep. "Mother – take that!" He scooped a handful of water and splashed her. She screamed once more as the salty water got in her eyes; vision bleary, she started flinging water back at her son, then noticing Erik surreptitiously trying to escape, tackled him from behind and knocking him into the water.

"Erik!" Gustave came running up and, when the man managed to regain his sense of balance, threw a shirtful of water over his head.

Erik growled, stood up and pulled the boy into the water as well.

Afterwards, drying themselves off in the sun (swimming lessons had been given up, due to sheer tiredness), Christine laughed, "That was wonderful, wasn't it?" She raised herself up to look at him and cut off her laughs, for he was gazing at her with nothing less than adoration. Very gently, he flicked a bit of wet hair from her face. And then he kept his hand on her cheek for a moment longer, not moving, just feeling her.

She drew nearer, lips parted, feeling an ache rise in her chest.

He jerked back suddenly, sat up, not looking at her anymore, then stood and walked away quickly. She remained in that position, feeling a tingling under her skin that did not come from the sunlight.

* * *

"It's too deep!" Gustave cried, trying to back into shallower water and only hitting Erik's legs. "And it's cold!"

"All water is cold," replied Erik patiently, pushing him back in. "Now look…let's start with putting your head under water."

Christine smiled, still trying to wring the water – and smell – from her hair. The sun was quite warm on her, and she basked in the rays, heedless of sunburn or of losing her usual (and much coveted) paleness.

"Close your eyes and don't breathe in," continued Erik. "Now, just put your head under…more than that…come now, your whole head…fine, at least your nose and mouth under water…good…I said not to breath in!"

Gustave snorted sea water out, then pulled free of Erik's grasp. "Wait, I want to do it again!"

"Fine…but when you're finished-" Erik stopped, as Gustave had plunged into much deeper water. After a few seconds, an obviously worried Erik hauled a spluttering Gustave back up.

"I opened my eyes! Underwater!" Gustave cried happily.

"Good, good. Now let's focus on swimming…have you seen how a dog swims?"

"No."

"Well, neither have I, but you will probably get the technique. You must keep your head above water…"

Patiently, Erik taught him, ignoring Christine's giggles on the shores. She knew he was always at his most calm when teaching another, criticizing only when needed, and quite gently too, never rushing the student ahead until he felt they were ready, but not keeping them learning the same things over and over again either.

Presently, the two very sodden males came trotting up the beach. Gustave ran the last few feet to join his mother, exclaiming, "Mother, I learned how to swim!"

"I know," she smiled, "I was watching." From behind her back she pulled out a basket; opening it, she unfolded a large, checkered sheet and spread it over the sand, smoothing out the bumps.

"What is this?" questioned Erik, now coming up as well.

She explained, "A picnic." She opened the basket and started to spread the food. "I was preparing this last night," she continued, now putting out napkins and utensils. "Have you never been on a picnic before, Erik?"

He shook his head, and was staring at her as if she were the abnormal one.

"Well, there's a first time for everything," she commented. With a lighthearted whack, she exclaimed, "Gustave! Wait until I'm done!" Like all boys, he had snatched up some piece of food as soon as he was aware it existed. To Erik, she chuckled, "Sit down, Erik! Have something to eat!" She handed him and Gustave a plate, on which were a fork, spoon, knife, and napkin. Then she pulled out the food – small sandwiches, apples, a green salad, and a pitcher of lemonade.

"So, where to next?" she asked Erik (arm hooked in his in a painfully tight grip).

He tilted his head, glancing at Phantasma, glowing beautifully in the setting sun. "I was thinking," he said slowly, but with a certain mischief concealed in his tone, "of perhaps shutting my park down early…and emptying out all the happy families…"

Christine smothered a laugh, matching his serious tone. "Why, Monsieur Erik, how cruel that would be, to cast out all your customers so early in the day…"

"Not all of them," he answered, eyes gleaming. "We might have one or two of them who get to go on all the rides, free of charge and without the long wait in line…"

Christine pretended to think. "A great temptation, I will admit…" Her eyes twinkled suddenly. "Since we are at an impasse, what say we let a third party decide?"

"Of course. There is no one more unbiased than a ten year old boy."

* * *

The park was emptied in little more than half an hour, amidst much disgruntlement. Not that Erik cared; for once, it seemed his park, which had merely been a diversion to keep his mind off Christine, was about to come in handy.

"What is this?" asked Christine, referring to a ride Erik had pointed out to them.

"I forget the name," shrugged Erik, "but it makes you feel like you are flying."

Christine did not feel like questioning how Erik could have forgotten the name to his own creation. Besides, the ride was too interesting not to stare at. It was essentially a large wheel turned horizontally and stuck on a tower; from each of the spokes hung a chair with a restraining bar from a string.

"It looks dangerous," Christine observed, hand to her chest.

"Surprisingly, it has the least casualties attributed to it," commented Erik, pushing open the gate. He held out his hand. "Come. It is…fun."

Christine repeated, "Casualties?"

"As I have said, a very low number."

He buckled a reluctant Christine in, hand drifting uncomfortably close to her body, and then Gustave in front, then proceeded to start the ride from a small box to the side.

"Whoa," Gustave whispered as the chair lifted from the ground. Then the huge spoke to which all the chairs were tied to began to spin, and though Gustave feared he might be nauseous, he was not. The chairs, dangling from their wires, swung out in a huge arc so that he was tilted to his left – and flying over the park.

"Mother!"

"I know!" she cried from behind. "It's – it's-"

"Incredible!"

The world seemed to go by in a whirl, yet slowly enough that they could see, if they focused enough – a ride in the distance, completely still – the carnival area packed with games – food booths still smoking – and finally, on the ground and watching them, barely discernible, Erik, who had left the box and was staring up at the swirling wheel.

It had to end, though Christine and Gustave begged for another ride. ("Maybe later," was Erik's reply.) Having been on several of the rides before on their first trip through Phantasma, the three opted to go to the carnival area glimpsed before, where they played throwing games, trying to toss balls into baskets, through hoops, into holes; trying to knock down bottles; trying to throw darts at balloons, which popped open to reveal small prizes, too cheap to be of any value, but incredibly fulfilling anyway.

As Erik, Christine, and Gustave made their way to the food stands, they glimpsed other parts under construction – a large glass pavilion which Erik said would hold some of his more incredible inventions for display, an area designed as a sort of 'petting zoo' for farm animals and the like (Christine could not see the point, but Erik assured her that many Americans lived their entire lives in a city without access to rural animals), and a large structure he said would become a 'haunted house'.

"This cannot be healthy," Christine laughed, eating her second hot dog in three days. "I might lose my figure."

"Impossible," Erik scoffed; he was not eating, but seemed to like watching her and her son dine. "If anyone is likely to ruin their figure, it is your son there."

They both looked at Gustave, stuffing himself with enough food for three.

Christine frowned, tapping her son's arm. "Gustave, do not eat so fast, it's not good for you." The boy mumbled something close to "Yes, Mother" and slowed down, though not too much.

"This place is amazing, Erik," Christine continued, as if there had been no interruption. "Did you really create this in ten years?"

"Yes." A hesitant pause. "It was only something to occupy my time."

She wiped the grease from her fingers, brow crinkling at his last words. "What happened to your music?"

He looked her straight in the eye. "I have not written a piece of music – apart from your aria – in the last ten years."

She felt her heart tear, and broke the gaze, staring at the wooden surface of the table. "You spent ten years building a park, instead," she reiterated, then leaped wildly on that topic. "How long did it take? How did you do it?"

He answered quickly, as relieved as she to get to another subject. "Only a few years, at the most."

"How did you start?" She remembered rumors of the Phantom of the Opera blackmailing the managers for money, and wondered if he had taken some of the funds over to Coney Island.

"I displayed myself," he said brusquely.

She repeated, aghast, "Displayed yourself?"

"In a sideshow."

"But – you had money, back in…the Opera House…" She tried desperately to avoid the topic of his more illicit ventures, and he followed her lead.

"It was lost. The mob burned down most of my lair, and the money, and even if they hadn't…I had no wish to return there. I did not even pay for the trip here; I smuggled myself onboard." He thought for a moment. "After you…left…I didn't really care about myself."

Christine looked down. Something had changed his mind about that, but she did not want to bring it up. "So… you put yourself up as…a freak?"

"I did." When she sneaked a glance upwards, she saw that he wasn't looking at her either, but at a point somewhere above her head. Wanting to move on, he added, "I asked – and received – a quarter of the profits. And I had other means. When it was over I would often take to the streets to show off my other skills."

"Other skills?" Christine's head was swimming with new information; she had known her Angel was learned, was an extraordinary singer and composer and, based on what Madame Giry had said, architect and designer, but she had not imagined he had even more talents. After all, weren't the rest enough?

"Ventriloquism," he explained, adding wryly, "as you may remember. Magic tricks, anything involving sleight of hand…and later, inventions. The automatons that you saw – those were conceived of in that time."

"Magic tricks?" came Gustave's voice. He had been concentrating on his food, but that had made his ears perk up. "You can do magic tricks?"

Erik leaned forward and said in a conspiratorial whisper, "I can do many. Would you like to see one?"

Gustave nodded.

"Very well. But first, we need some money." Erik reached for the air next to Gustave's ear, and in an instant, had made a coin appear in his hand. The boy gasped, delight apparent in his eyes. Erik smiled back slightly and said, "Now go to that stand over there and buy me a pack of cards. Your choice."

Still stunned, Gustave rushed to where Erik was pointing, bought the first deck he saw, and came back. Erik unwrapped the cards, allowed Gustave to shuffle the cards, then took it back and held the deck out to the boy, the cards facing down.

"Choose a card, any card you like."

Gustave threw a look, then picked one out from the middle and peered at it.

"It's the-"

Erik put up a hand. "Don't tell me. Just put it on top of the deck."

Three of spades, that was the card. Gustave did as he was told.

"Now, Gustave, what card is on top of the deck?"

Gustave was utterly bewildered. "The – the three of spades, right?" He glanced at his mother. "Right?"

With an enigmatic smile, Erik replied, "Lift up the card and see."

Gustave did. The card was the seven of clubs. He cried out, "Mother, the card! I put it right there, and it's gone!" He snapped his gaze back up to Erik. "How did you do that?" he asked.

"A magician never tells his tricks," was Erik's answer, sliding the cards away.

"No, please, tell me!"

Erik laughed, and it was quite a pleasant sound. "Perhaps I shall teach you instead."

"Oh, teach me now!"

"Later." Erik glanced swiftly at Christine, and was delighted at seeing Gustave's joy mirrored in her eyes. "For now, perhaps you should finish your food."

While Gustave ate, Erik finished up his story.

"With tricks like that, I soon had enough money to buy out the sideshow and start my own. It was successful; I had made some connections during my time out in the streets." He shrugged, neglecting to explain just what those connections were. "I expanded, and in a few years, I had Phantasma."

She picked at a spot in the table and said, "You make it sound so easy." Night had fallen, she noticed, though, perhaps due to Erik's preferences, the electric lights strung up all over the park had not turned on.

"It was something to distract me," he said once more. He looked about, saw Gustave had finished eating and was looking longingly towards the games, and stood, sweeping the wrappings into a nearby trash bin. "Come. It is getting late. We should be going back."

Christine nodded and took Gustave's hand. As they walked towards the back entrance once more, Christine wondered what Coney Island looked at night. She had heard wonderful things – ribald things, too – and she was sure the darkened, silent state it was in was not the Coney Island usually seen when the sun fell.

"Careful," warned Erik, guiding the two around some trash.

"Thank you," said Christine. She looked at Erik, seeing only the masked half of his face, blank and glowing slightly in the night. Suddenly she said, "Erik, I-"

"Christine?" called a strangely familiar voice. It echoed dully in her mind, and she groped desperately for it. But it was Erik's sudden growl that brought it jolting back to conscious memory.

"Christine!"

She turned towards the voice and cried out, "Raoul?"

"Christine!"

Gustave yelled, "Father!"

Christine pulled free of Erik and ran in the direction of the voice. In seconds she saw her husband, stumbling through the park. "Raoul!"

Erik grabbed her; a yelp from the gloom informed her of Gustave's capture as well. Then they were fleeing, running towards the fence looming towards them, going so fast Christine could not keep up, depending only on Erik to keep her balance. She stumbled over a bit of debris and almost crashed, and was jerked back up by Erik, who snapped at her,

"Do not think you can escape from me, Christine!"

With a twist that almost wrenched her arm from her socket he forced her forward, pushing them through the fence opening – and finally becoming aware that this was not the gentle Erik of only a few moments before, Christine found herself screaming,

"Raoul! Raoul!"

"Christine!" To her horror she found his voice was shrinking, becoming more distant; she could not even see him in the darkness anymore. And her cry brought Erik's attention; with a roar he threw her forward so that she fell on her hands.

"Move!" he shouted, pulling her back up and pushing her. The tower came sharply into view; they ran around it until they were at the entrance, and Erik, still holding her arm in an unshakeable grip, almost brought the door down with the force he threw at it.

"Get in!" And he pushed both forward and locked the door behind them.

* * *

"Christine! Christine!"

He turned, thinking he heard her cry.

"Christine!"

Gone. Gone. They were gone. He fell to the ground, pressing his fists to his forehead. He had been so close. So terribly close to rescuing his wife and son. But like the stupid idiot he was, he had called out to them without seeing the dark figure at their side.

Oh God, why hadn't he waited just a few more moments? Why hadn't he kept silent and crept up on them. He had beaten the Phantom once before, and he could do it again.

Christine, Christine…I was right, oh God in heaven, I was right…that monster has you and I don't know what he plans to do to you…

Wait…he did know.

It had been two, almost three days now. Why was this Angel of Death letting Christine and Gustave walk around freely? Had Christine gained his trust, somehow? Deep in his heart, Raoul knew why the Phantom had done his terrible deeds. The monster had loved Christine, though in the end, it had been his undoing. And apparently, he still fancied himself in love with her, and was trying to…

The answer came sluggishly to his mind. He was trying to gain back her love.

But Raoul, like the fool he was, he had ruined any chance of Christine escaping. He had heard the Phantom's angry shout and Christine's accompanying cry of fear. And Raoul clearly remembered the consequences of arousing the Phantom's anger.

No, the Phantom would not let her go out again. Until…

The performance. He was saving her for the performance. The girl, that 'bathing beauty' herself had said she would, but he had forgotten in his urgent need to find the Phantom's home. And he had seen the men revealing the concert hall, setting up posters. But he had thought the Phantom was just keeping up a facade of normalcy, that he would never dare let Christine out of his sight.

But you remember how much music meant to him, he thought. His plan from the start was to have Christine sing for him. Now that she was in his grasp – with Gustave – it only made it more likely that she would do as he ordered.

He stood up, fists still clenched at his side. He would be at the concert hall, though he had no way of getting in and no police to help him. He would find Christine and Gustave, take her away from this horrible place – and he would wait for the right moment to strike back at this man who had so ruined their lives. He would kill the Phantom of the Opera.

* * *

"Erik – Erik-"

Her cries went unheeded. Desperately she reached for him, tried to still his terrible jealousy – but he lashed out at her groping hands, throwing them back.

"Erik!"

"Do not – do not-" He was almost incoherent with rage. With another shout of frustration he forced open the bedroom door. "Get in!" he shouted at her.

"No! Erik, please-"

He shoved her forward so that she fell to the floor; when she managed to roll over she saw Gustave screaming as he was dragged in as well. She screamed, "Erik, we didn't-"

"Do not-!" He cut off his own shout. When he next spoke it was in a low hiss. "You thought you might escape, Christine? You thought you could run from me?"

She shook her head frantically. "Erik, please-"

"You can never leave me, Christine!" He grabbed her arm and jerked her up to his masked face, screaming at her. "You will stay here, you and the boy! You will sing for me!"

She thrust out her hand and shrieked, "You cannot force me to do anything, Erik!" Falling back, Christine pushed her son behind her, tears of pure anger running down her cheeks. "I am not a naïve child you can command at your will! Not anymore!" She drew even closer, crying out, "I will choose whether I am to sing, Erik! Or to stay!"

He jerked forward, seeming to fill the entire doorway, but it was his burning gaze that made Christine gasp and stumble back. "If you do not sing for me," he whispered, "I promise you will never see your son or your husband-" he spat out the word "-ever again. Do you understand me?"

He grabbed the back of her neck, pulling her forward. Gustave shrieked, pounding at him, only to be shoved back.

She went very still in his grip. The very lack of struggling unnerved him. Her tears had stopped, leaving only their wet tracks on her cheeks.

"Erik," she said through lips that felt completely numb. "I will decide."

Her last words seem to have come from a very great distance. She backed away from the doorway, gaze unfocused.

Erik took the gentle words as if they were a blow to which he had long grown used to. His body sagged against one end of the doorway, breathing in shallow gasps as his anger left him as quickly as it had come.

"You will stay here," he finally murmured. "And you will sing for me."

He shut the door.

* * *

Raoul is developing this incredible ability to completely mess things up for everyone.


	12. Chapter 12

Raoul seems to be rather unpopular, just based on the reviews. XD

Chapter 12

"No, that one – quickly, man!"

The revolver gleamed even in the dull illumination of the weapons store, the mullioned windows letting in sunlight only reluctantly. Behind an oak desk and lining the walls were innumerable weapons, of all sizes and shapes, from a tiny pistol to, hidden away in the back corner, what was clearly an elephant gun, a huge contraption designed to bring down even the behemoth mammals in the savannahs of Africa.

No, he only needed to bring down a man, he thought savagely. "Yes, I'll take it," he muttered, slapping down some bills and exiting the store swiftly thereafter.

The walk to the hotel was so terribly lonely. He imagined Christine and Gustave here – Gustave would be running ahead as always, unable to contain his curiosity – and Christine would be holding his arm, calling lightly ahead to Gustave to stay in sight – only, of course, she would also be gasping and pointing to the wonders –

What wonders? he asked himself. All he saw was dank and darkness and smoke – towering gray buildings, nondescript, undecorated – lined with people who seemed to have the same angrily resigned expressions, rushing from one place to the next. As he walked across the street he was nearly run over by one of those new-fangled horseless carriages, and only his preoccupation with his missing wife and children held back his curse.

"Sir!" A jolly old man, a stark contrast to the huddling masses and obviously recognizing wealth from Raoul's clothing and bearing, sped up, holding a flyer. "Sir, are you a lover of culture and art and all the finer things others cannot enjoy?" His wave seemed to indicate the anonymous crowds hurrying past.

Raoul didn't spare him a glance. "No."

"Sir! Then perhaps I might interest in a delight for the ears, a sound to rival the angels themselves? Surely you have heard then, of the Soprano of the Century?"

Raoul paused. "The Soprano of-" He darted back, grabbing the man by his shoulders. "Do you mean Christine de – Christine Daaé?"

The man scurried back, terrified by the man's intensity. "Sir, I did not mean to offend – please, I will go-"

"No!" Raoul shouted, frightening the man even more. Modulating his tone, he hissed, "Please – I must – are you selling tickets here?" He burrowed into his pockets, pulling out a wad of money. "I want front-row seats – those closest to the stage-"

"Sir! Those are our most-"

"I do not care about the cost!" yelled Raoul, now attracting stares. "Just give me – one ticket!" He stuffed several bills of unknown cost into the man's hands. Unable to turn down such wealth the man quickly snapped off a ticket and threw it at Raoul, before muttering something about finding another customer and rushing from the scene.

Raoul grabbed at the fluttering piece of paper, clutching it so hard the thin paper came close to tearing. The only rational part of his mind whispered that he was drawing near insanity in his desperation. The rest of him cried out that his family was in the hands of a monster.

A prickling along the back of his neck made him shoot up, glancing frantically around. At the end of the street he spied the source of his unease – a simple policeman who happened to be glancing at him. No doubt he was just on patrol – but Raoul couldn't help thinking of the burly chief's subtle threat.

Pushing the ticket out of sight, Raoul drew up his coat and turned down the opposite street.

* * *

"I want to leave!"

"No Gustave."

"Please, Mother! I'm scared, I want to go, please…"

"Do you think I am not scared, too?" Christine cried out, clutching her head. Gustave went utterly quiet. She collapsed on the bed, on the verge of tears. "Do you think I do not want to leave too, Gustave? That I have not… have not tried to talk to Erik, to persuade him…"

She let her words die. It was too easy to forget everything here. Erik dominated the room, dominated their lives, and how quickly they had let him just take over. How easy it was, to forget Raoul, to fall under Erik's spell… Gustave was vulnerable, she knew, too amazed by the wonders of the park and Erik's domain to question anything… but even she could not deny his power. Even she had forgotten.

It had taken Raoul's cry to jolt her from her complacency.

She started when she felt her son's hand on her back, light and hesitant.

"Mother?" Gustave's voice shook as if he too were holding back tears. "I'm sorry. I'll be quiet now…"

Christine sat up, the picture of calmness, save for the redness in her eyes and a stuffiness to her voice. She took Gustave's hand and squeezed it gently.

"We cannot go right now, Gustave. The performance is tomorrow. Erik will want us to stay until then. Then…"

He stared up at her, trusting her implicitly. "He will let us go, right?"

She smiled brightly. "Of course."

Gustave rolled over, assured; in a whisper, he asked, "Why is he so…strange? He was so nice at first…then he was so… so scary. Why, Mother?"

She looked at him, and his innocent, questioning face forced her to speak honestly. "I do not know, Gustave. There is so little I know of him. But it is, in part, because of his deformity, Gustave."

Gustave frowned. "But…you said it's just a face…"

"People fear what they don't know, Gustave, and that is all Erik has known." She lay down, trying desperately to understand Erik, to understand her own mix of pity and fear and the compelling power his voice had over her. "I don't know much of his childhood…but his mother hated him for that face…and he was in a freak show when he was a child, ridiculed…you must understand how this might affect him."

"How?"

Another long struggle. "He never knew love, or even acceptance, Gustave. I told you he loved me, right, Gustave? I was the only one he ever loved. And he held onto me when I fled to Raoul, and…it's so hard to explain… when he thought I didn't love him back, he was angry. Angrier than today."

Gustave couldn't fathom a rage more terrible than the one he had experienced today, and he felt a sudden admiration for his mother, that she could face up to Erik at his worst. Now he understood some of her aloofness, her calm and patience in the face of her often-bigoted in-laws. He had often picked up snide comments from his father's parents and siblings, aimed at his mother, belittling her Swedish ancestry, her poor background. But his mother had taken them without any change in demeanor; sometimes, with just a soft little smile that served only to reveal their inner pettiness.

Christine sighed. "I've said enough. You know the rest, though. He let me go-"

"Why?" asked Gustave. "Why did he let you go?" The little he knew of Erik did not convince the boy that he would simply free Christine.

His mother, however, turned away. "I already told you why, Gustave. He wanted me to be happy." Seeing Gustave's skeptical face, she explained a little more. "I showed that I accepted him, not as my Angel, but as a person. And Erik has never known someone who felt for him that way. He was grateful. He let me go."

Christine lay awake for a very long time. For hours after she had soothed her son into sleep, she remained staring at the shadowed ceiling, watching the lights from the crack under the door flick over the walls, dazzlingly complex for so little illumination.

A normal day, she thought sardonically. Well, it certainly had ended as something quite different.

She rolled over, wrapping the covers over her chilled legs. Erik's greatest fear had been her escape. And she could see why – he certainly might expect her to go running back to Raoul and to France, where he would have no hope of reaching her.

He loves me.

Yet how could two men differ so in their actions? Raoul was comforting, safe, gentle; Erik was as wild as the sea she lay so close to, one moment, another moment raging and violent. And perhaps that was what frightened her most – that he was changeable, that he was capable of anything in his black moods – and finally, that she was as attracted to this passionate, dangerous side, as much as she was to his lighter moods.

Raoul…Raoul was safety. Raoul was someone she knew, someone she could count on. Raoul had loved her and Gustave, a son who was not even his own, for ten years. The very least she owed him was her fidelity.

And what did she owe Erik?

Her mind came slowly to the answer. A great deal. For it was she who had exposed his face and all his defenses, who had held his heart in her naïve, childish hands and discarded it, she who had driven him, again and again, to do the worst things one could do in pursuit of his love and who had, at last, broken him with one kiss.

She could not just run away from him again. Not this time. She had been right in one respect – she was no longer a child who could be ordered about. Not by him, and not by Raoul, and not even by the conventional standards of right and wrong.

* * *

Erik paced his own room for most of the day. Sometimes he would break off and rush to the door of Christine's room, then physically force himself to stop. Once he placed his ear to the door.

"Mother, I'm scared…"

"Hush Gustave…the performance is tomorrow…"

He could not hear anymore. And it did not matter. He knew the words that would come after.

We can go home after that. The thought was unbearable. With his gnawing guilt warring against his desire, he could not make any rational decision, and finally fled to the safety of his own room.

When he finally mustered the courage to leave, it was nearing evening. He entered the main room of his home only to find Christine sitting at the seat of his piano, with a serene expression on her face.

She said, "Good evening."

He paused. At last he answered, "Good evening."

Quite calmly, she continued, "I did not get a chance to rehearse last night." Erik wondered how she managed to keep her voice so even, casting no blame, acting as if she had simply gone to bed and forgotten everything that had transpired. She went on, "Or to explain myself. You know I would not escape, don't you?" It was said with a wry undertone, since she knew that of course he had.

Erik, for his part, could only wonder at where this courage was coming from.

"I made a promise to stay with you that night," she said quietly, but now there was a hint of pleading. "And I would have. I would not have run."

He lowered his gaze from her beautiful face.

Christine sighed, staring at the ivory keys of the piano. "Well, never mind. I was hoping you might play with me. Would you like to?"

He drew nearer to the piano, joining her in touching the keys lightly. "You wish me to?"

She nodded. "If you wish to."

He sat down, watching for any flinching away. She offered a small smile instead. "I am ready," she said, straightening up.

After another moment of hesitation he started to play; a few seconds later Christine's ethereal voice joined in, weaving in and out with the melody. But try as he might he could not sink into the music; instead, every note and chord seemed to strike at something deep in him.

Halfway through he shouted "Enough!" and shattered the aria with a thunderous pounding of the keys.

Christine exclaimed in a shocked tone, "Erik!"

He lunged at her, shaking her by the shoulders. "What would you have me do, Christine?" He stumbled back. "What do you want of me?"

"I-"

He swept down on her again, dragging her from her stool and shouting in her face. "All I ever asked for was your love! Just that! Everybody else can gain it so easily, yet I am continuously denied it!"

"Erik-"

"I would beg from you, Christine – I would do whatever you wish me to do! I would kill – no!" He pushed himself back at the rising horror in her face, then grabbed at the walls, ripping at the decorations so that they shattered on the floor. "I would tear off this cursed face if I could, Christine – but please…" He gasped, sliding to the ground, his energy burning away. "At least sing for me…" He crawled forward slowly, picking up the papers on which his libretto was written; they had floated gently to the floor when he had rushed away. "Sing this…and just pretend, for once, that you loved me…"

Christine sobbed into her hands, feeling her heart tear apart. They remained on opposite sides of the room, and might have stayed that way, had she not forced herself to legs that felt as if they were made of lead, and fallen to the ground beside him.

Gasping, she whispered, "I have done you so much wrong…"

He raised a trembling hand to her face, then drew back. And now it was she who crawled on hands and knees to him, took his hand, and let him touch her wet cheeks.

"Forgive me, Erik," she murmured, "for all the woe I have brought you."

He grasped her hand. "I think it is you who needs to forgive me, for all that I have done…"

She gently rested her hand – still caught in his grip – on his uncovered cheek. "Erik, you must know that I love Raoul."

"Why?" He must have known he sounded childish, for a faint red flush went over the half of his face she could see.

"Because we were childhood sweethearts. Because he cared for me. Because he has been with me for ten years." Ten years you could have had, had you not run away from me.

"I gave you up once before," Erik whispered. "I don't think I can do it again."

She cupped his face. "You loved me then. You say you still love me now. If you really do, you would."

He dropped his face, and she felt a wrenching sympathy for this lonely man who had only really wanted this one thing. At the same time there was a growing sense of self-hatred at her own feelings, her own actions. But if she could at least bring some peace…

She bent her head to his, her curls brushing his neck. He stirred at the touch, the movement jerky with suppressed longing. Leaning in further, she gave him a whisper-soft kiss on the lips, barely touching his own and quickly pulling back, fearing what might happen next.

Nothing – from Erik, at least, except an explosive release of breath when she drew back. But it was too late for her. Once more she felt that electric shock run from her mouth over her neck, her body, her mind, and she regretted pulling away so swiftly.

Erik was still panting heavily, clutching at her hand once more. He gasped, "Christine…" He jerked upright, taking control of himself with iron discipline. Yet still he could only manage to say her name in those short breaths, so that she wanted nothing more than to grab him and pull him in for the kiss he so deserved and she so desired. Finally, when Christine thought she might shatter from the emotions racing across her, he stood, taking her hand.

"Follow me," he said brusquely, though his gaze was anything but that. "I have something to show you."

He led her to the locked wooden door she had seen when exploring her first day there. Inside was one thing – a spindly wooden staircase leading upwards. Erik grasped her hand and led her up, opening a trapdoor at the top. He pulled himself through, then reached back down and hauled her up as well.

Looking back, he said on a sudden whim, "Close your eyes."

"What?"

"Close them."

She did, and he led her to a small chair he had set up on the roof. His mouth close to her ear, so close he could smell her scent, he whispered, "Open."

She did, blinking to clear her sight, then gasped. Before her was all of Coney Island spread out before her. Phantasma was gleaming with lights, the screams and cries of the tourists only a faint sound emanating from the distance. Further ahead were other parks, the lines of their wires strung with bubbles of lights. But by far the greatest spectacles were the Ferris wheel, every spoke alit, and a huge tower she thought might rival Paris's Eiffel Tower, every line aglow and rising up to meet a shining star at the top.

"Oh, Erik," she sighed, "it's amazing. I can see everything."

He kneeled down by her, the chair only meant for one person. Without thinking, she took his hand in hers once more, holding it, not in the comforting manner of only a few moments before, but in one of companionship she always assumed would be there.

"Do you like it?" he asked. "This is why I built the tower here…to see all of Coney Island at night."

"I do. I understand." She turned to smile at him and halted at the unswervingly adoring gaze. Her gaze dropped, only to find their interlaced fingers. Why was it, she thought, that only when she became aware of him touching her that she felt that dangerous little tingle again? Could Erik feel it too?

He had to. He was staring at her too, mouth parted slightly. His breathing was still heavy, as if he had exerted himself overly much. She knew it was not from the climb up the stairs.

A wind blew over the island, and high atop the tower she could feel the chill penetrating her thin clothing. Immediately Erik moved closer. "Are you cold?"

"No. I mean, a little, but it will pass."

He scooted even nearer. "I could…put my arm around you," he said hesitantly; the rise at the end of his voice made it a question.

Christine twisted her dress between her hands, but acquiesced. Erik pulled her into his grip, though his shuffling indicated his own unfamiliarity with the movement. Immediately she felt a warmth that did not come from his body – it came from within her. Christine snuggled in to him, then turned her head to look at him. Feeling her stare, he also gazed back.

Then she leaned forward and kissed him again.

Surprise bloomed over his face. But she moved towards him – and this time, so did he, meeting her lips halfway and kissing her until she had lost her breath and had to pull away, gasping. But her mind worked sluggishly, too caught up in the heat of the moment, so that when she was apart she only took the opportunity to grab the back of his head and pull him forward again.

It might not have ended ever, and she would never know what would have happened – perhaps they might have tumbled to the floor and not stopped – but it was Erik who dragged himself away, looking at something just over her shoulder. She turned swiftly and squeaked, for there, at the trapdoor, was Gustave.

"Gustave…"

She wasn't sure who said that. But her son's wide eyes brought her crashing back to reality. She could not allow herself to love Erik – no, she did not love Erik at all. She could not. She loved Raoul, her husband who had stayed at her side for ten years of unswerving devotion…

Which was why she leaped to her feet, skirts swishing, and, murmuring an apology to Erik, ran to her son and pulled him back down the trapdoor.

* * *

This felt a little fast...or something...Oh well.

Erik's bipolarity really making its presence known.

I'm going to do some self-promotion and ask you all to go check out my Tumblr! :D The link is on my profile. It has a lot of POTO stuff, some LND, and other things.


	13. Chapter 13

Hey, I get readers from Korea? Ooh, and Singapore...Hong Kong...how awesome is that?

Anyway, thanks guys, for the reviews you've all given so far! I love reading them, and I hope you enjoy the story!

Chapter 13

Christine tucked the covers into the edges of the bed, leaving just enough space so that she and Gustave could wriggle around, but tight enough minimize heat loss.

"Nights are so cold in Coney Island," she commented a little too lightly. Gustave didn't bother answering this obvious attempt to brush over the incident on top of the Aerie.

Instead he got right to the point. "You were kissing him."

She flinched, trying to focus all attention on the covers. "Maybe you saw wrong." Oh Lord, she was lying to her ten year old son. Of course he had seen what she was doing, and he was more than clever enough to deduce it and all its meanings. "You need a lot of rest, Gustave. You want to be at my performance, right?"

Gustave sat up with some difficulty. "Mother, you were kissing him."

She straightened. "Yes, Gustave, I was. And how is that important?"

"You should only kiss Father. You should only kiss the people you love the most, and you said you loved Father the most. Not Erik!"

She shook her head. "Gustave, it's too complicated."

"How? Mother, you love Father…" He stared at her uncomprehendingly. "Don't you?"

She grabbed her nightgown from the chair and went behind a dressing cover. "Of course I love your father, Gustave."

"And Erik? You said he only loved you. You didn't say-"

She folded up her dress and let it hand over the cover, pulling her arms through the sleeves of the nightgown. "Gustave, please. I once loved Erik," she confessed. "But now…it's over."

Yet Gustave insisted, "But you were kissing him."

"I don't know why I did that, Gustave!" she cried from behind the cover. "I only wanted to…to bring him some measure of peace. That is all." She emerged in her nightgown and scooted into the bed. "Now go to sleep. It's going to be busy day tomorrow, so we all need a good night's sleep." It was said with such a measure of finality that her son finally stopped pestering her and closed her eyes. Yet again, it was she who remained awake.

* * *

Around noon, Erik sneaked Gustave and Christine from the Aerie and into the beautiful glass carriage they had arrived in. At the front were the three freaks, who set off at a faster pace than before, so much that Gustave feared they might crash. The prospect distracted him (he was wondering if the carriage would shatter if they hit anything) enough that he didn't see the concert hall until they had pulled up to it.

"Oh my," whispered Christine (being rushed to the back entrance). "It's so…large." Yet it was not as opulently decorated as the Paris Opera House, which, she admitted, is what she had expected. There is a cleaner simplicity to the building that was both surprising yet pleasant to look at.

Of course, there was little time to do even that, for Erik was pushing her to the backstage area and finding his own hidden corner in the building. After all, he had spent ten years building up a reputation as a reclusive businessman. He could not be seen delivering his own invitee to the hall.

Gustave sat on a nearby stool and watched his mother dress. She had come in what she had planned to wear and was a little disconcerted at the insistent makeup artists and costumers.

"But this is what I wanted to wear," she said, pointing to her clothing. "I picked these out myself, just for today."

They shook their heads fiercely – and, Gustave noted with some amusement, in unison. "No, no, Mr. Y specifically said for you to wear this!" They thrust a gown, hidden beneath a mound of wrapping paper, at her. "He designed it himself," they said in hushed voices, as if that fact might convince her.

Apparently it did; his mother sighed and disappeared behind another dressing cover. The costumers bustled off to another part of the stage while the makeup artists started setting up powders and creams and palettes –

"Some blush for the dear-" clucked one woman.

Her friend shoved her aside. "Tsk! And ruin her complexion? Such pale skin, darling, how do you keep it so-"

Another fluttered by, brandishing a tube of garish red lipstick. "This will bring out your lips, my dear-"

"No, no! Her eyebrows! We must-"

"Enough!" Christine shouted. "I can do my own makeup!" She shooed everybody away. "Go! Go! I will do it myself, thank you!" Sighing, she collapsed at the table, staring at the mass of brushes and materials.

"I think you look beautiful already," Gustave chimed in. And he thought she did. The dress was light lavender held by strings of beads at her arms. It was certainly dissimilar to the large, almost ballooning dresses she had worn years ago at the opera. This was slim, hugging her slender body while emphasizing every one of her curves.

His mother laughed, a bit of hysteria underneath. "Oh, Gustave, you would think your mother beautiful under any circumstances."

He argued, "No, I wouldn't. I think you look really ugly when you get up in the morning." He felt a surge of joy when his mother giggled.

"Very true," she said, pulling up her hair. "Gustave, what do you think? Leave it up or down?"

He cocked his head to one side, then grinned. "Put it up, but make it low."

She laughed once more. "Since when did you know so much about hair?" she asked with a raised eyebrow, yet did as he told, combing out her long curls and twisting it into a simple, low bun. "Now, makeup." She opened several jars and palettes, tested the brushes, then started working on her face. Gustave swung his legs about. This was rather boring.

"There," she announced with one last pat of the powder-puff, rather quicker than he was expecting. When he looked at her, he saw why – she had not put on much makeup at all, going more for simplicity. It suited the dress; it suited her. "Gustave," she said, "hand me those earrings."

Carefully he took to dangling jewels and passed them to her. When they were in, she turned around to face him. "How do I look?" she asked.

"You look beautiful," said Gustave, the lack of energy only emphasizing his sincerity.

"She does, does she not?" came a voice from behind him. Gustave squeaked when Erik appeared out of the shadows, in a very formal suit, looking over Christine. "It is a newfangled design, that dress…but soon all the ladies will be imitating it, once they see how well it fits on you."

Christine flushed, facing the mirror once more. Erik moved around behind her now, frowning. "It is not complete," he muttered, "not without…"

From out of his suit he pulled out a box, and from out of the box, a bejeweled necklace. With tender care he laid the extravagant piece of jewelry around Christine's neck, clipping it for her.

"Does that not look better, Gustave?" asked Erik, though he was looking, not at the boy, but at Christine's stunned reflection. "Your mother is…beautiful." He released her neck, bending his head so that he was looking at the side of her face. Gustave watched his mother turn slowly to face him as well, the movements having a sluggishness similar to that of a person under hypnosis. Her eyes drifted to his hands, and she let out a slight gasp.

"The ring…"

He lifted his hand on instinct, and Gustave saw a glimmer of light. He leaned forward on his chair. It was indeed a ring, though quite unlike the glittering diamond on Christine's own finger – Erik's befit his nature, a dark, round stone set in a simple gold band.

"You've kept it…?" Christine said wonderingly. "All these years?"

He didn't answer; there was no need. Christine placed her hand over the jewel, then lifted it away, almost reverently. She asked, "Why?"

He answered in one shuddering breath, "It was the only thing I had left to remember you."

Gustave, watching them both, felt a rising discomfort. It was too emotional, too private, this scene. And he did not like the uncertainty it brought to him, for he had never seen his mother act this way around his father.

Erik lifted his hand and ran a hand through her hair. "Will you sing for me one more time, Christine?" he whispered.

She gazed into his eyes for a long, searching moment. Then, "I will sing."

Somehow Gustave thought this might satisfy the man, but again Erik defied his expectations. He snapped away and told her to get ready for the performance, then disappeared back into the shadows.

Gustave dropped to the ground and ran to his disappointed mother. "Are you really going to sing, Mother?"

She nodded. "I owe Erik that much. And…" She turned pensive. "You know, Erik offered a great deal of money for me to sing. He will carry his promise out…"

He rested his head on the table, looking at his reflection. After a moment, he asked, "Are we really going home after this?"

"I hope so."

That was the first time he had heard his mother express uncertainty. It had been an unwavering point of faith even when Gustave didn't believe it himself. It frightened him. "Mother, why not?"

Her hands were shaking, he noticed. She put them down, gripping the desk. When she spoke, her voice shook as well. "I just – I'm not sure. Everything is all confused, twisted all around…I don't know what to think anymore…"

Gustave swallowed down his rising fear. "Mother? Will Erik…keep us?" He inched closer, wanting to be nearer her comforting body. "Mother, he scared me…"

She patted his head. "I know. He scared me, too." He waited for one of her usual responses to look beyond that, but there was nothing. His mother was lost in her own thoughts. Sighing, he drew away.

"Do you think Father will be there?" he asked, trying to find a topic as far away from Erik as possible.

His mother started at the question. "Raoul…" she breathed, "yes…Raoul will be there…oh, God…"

"Mother!" Gustave cried out in terror as Christine sank her face into her hands. "Mother, what is it?"

She waved away his care. "It is nothing…I'm fine, Gustave. Really." She lifted her head. "It is just the performance. I'm a little nervous. That is all." She stood in all her splendor and Gustave doubted that she was experiencing any stage fright. He would not have been surprised if she started to glow, like one of the angels in his old picture books.

Gently pushing him out, she suggested, "Why don't you go explore backstage some more? You can't be very entertained stuck back here."

"Really?"

"Of course. But don't wander too far, and be here after I'm finished."

Gustave nodded, though his interest was already being drawn towards the orchestra members filing in – or rather, their instruments. "I will!" he shouted. And then he was gone.

"Miss Daaé, are you ready to begin?"

Despite not being called by her maiden name for years, Christine reacted as if it were all quite natural. "Yes." The stage manager nodded and stepped out of her line of sight. She could hear the low roar of the audience from behind the curtains. Nausea rose in her stomach, but not because of the performance. It was what would come after.

She had to make a choice. Erik or Raoul?

She paced backstage, glad it was empty, for her mind was in a torment. Erik. Raoul. Erik. Raoul. Oh, God, how could she decide when she loved both? She loved both –

She loved both.

Christine froze where she was, and brought her hands to her face in anguish. No. God, no. She could not be in love with Erik. She loved Raoul. She had to love Raoul.

But did she? The last few days had been opened her eyes. She had not run away from him, justifying that it was out of guilt or pity. But it wasn't, she thought to herself. She could not run away…because she was drawn to him like a moth to light. Try as she might, she could not leave him.

And being with him…holding him, touching him…kissing him…had brought emotions that she had never felt before when with Raoul. There was a deep, driving passion in Erik…in her…that perfectly matched Erik's… he inspired her, physically, mentally, vocally…and she knew him. She understood him, now, on a level she could not have at the Opera House. She was not a helpless girl anymore. She could see his strength, his genius, and could also withstand his temper, his terrifying mood swings.

Oh, God. She loved Erik.

And like that it clicked into place. And there was no sudden sense of doom or foreboding, but of rightness, and a loosening of tension she had never noticed was there. She loved him. A smile rose over her face. She loved him.

Where was he? She had to tell him everything.

The wings. The catwalks, perhaps. Swiftly she turned to find him, only to bump into the stage manager.

"Miss Daaé? It's time."

She blinked, standing frozen for so long that the stage manager began to look worried. He asked, "Miss Daaé?"

She shook her head. "Yes, of course. I'm sorry, just getting ready." The stage manager nodded and left. Christine took a breath, smoothing out her dress needlessly. To sing. She smiled once more. Yes, it was appropriate. She would sing with all her might, and he would know her true feelings. And when it was over, she would find Erik and tell him everything.

Straightening up, taking one more deep breath, she stepped onstage.

* * *

Erik crept from the shadows of the stage. The orchestra was beginning the first chords of his aria, and he waited for the first refrains to flow over the stage. A torrent of thoughts spilled over – the design for the concert hall, the exhausting auditions for orchestra members (and Erik had cast more than one member out for having an instrument out of tune), hiring stage managers and makeup artists and costumers and set designers…and finally, the torment of the last few days as he had persuaded Christine to perform.

Hidden behind the curtains, he watched. Once he might have chosen a box to watch the performance, but he wanted to be the first person she saw after she sang, when she would realize her true feelings.

Christine was standing alone, waiting for her cue. The entire audience was silent.

She sang.

"Who knows when love begins…who knows what makes it start…One day it's simply there…Alive inside your heart…"

The familiar chords washed over him, and he smiled triumphantly. At last, his aria, the one written specifically for Christine's voice, was being performed. And he could see the audience's reactions: they were riveted by her exquisite talent, how she hit every note just right, the pure emotion that was more clear than the quality of her own voice.

"It slips into your thoughts…It infiltrates your soul…It takes you by surprise…Then seizes full control…"

Christine was smiling, and he knew she could feel the love in every note. She had to know what she felt now. She had to see how he felt, how she must feel the same.

"Try to deny it and try to protest…But love won't let you go…once you've been possessed…"

Then something changed. Christine's eyes were far away, focused on the farthest reaches of the audience. But now her gaze swept over everybody, including them all in the song – and then slipped down.

The Vicomte was sitting in the front row, just as enraptured as the audience. Erik saw Christine falter suddenly, unnoticeable to anybody but him. The smile left her face; her hand flew to her chest.

Then a glow came over her, her eyes lit up, and she sang with all her might, her voice hitting the highest notes with extraordinary clarity.

"Love never dies…Love never falters….Once it has spoken, love is yours!"

Erik closed his eyes and backed off the stage. It was over. His song had been performed.

He let out a heavy sigh, leaning against the wall. Whom had he been trying to persuade? Christine did not love him, had never loved him. She loved the Vicomte, and no song or threat would force her otherwise. That was what she had been trying to tell him after all – that he could not force her love.

He had wronged her. He had deluded himself. And the best thing to do now was to leave her to her happy life.

He walked backstage, form huddled. When he reached her vanity table he paused, wrenched off the ring, and placed it near the brushes. For a moment he stood there, staring at this last bit of Christine.

"Erik?"

No, not quite the last bit.

Gustave moved hesitantly to him. "Aren't you going to watch Mother?" he asked.

Erik shook his head. "No. It's…over." He straightened up, started to walk away, then turned back to face Gustave. For all he had wronged Christine, he had done far more to this young boy…his son. It was too late to correct his mistakes with her, but perhaps he could leave the boy with one good memory of him.

"You play well," he told Gustave.

"Really?"

"Yes. You will do well in life, I predict."

"Thank you." The boy glanced up at him shyly. "If I ever perform something, will you come see me?"

Erik had to hold onto the vanity table for support. "I...will try," he managed.

"Thank you," the boy said again. He held out his hand. Erik took it, but only held onto it for a moment before letting go. He started to leave, but Gustave called, "Erik?"

He turned.

Gustave said with a trace of hesitance. "I – I like your mask. But I think your face is fine, too."

Erik managed a smile. He knew the boy was lying, but it warmed the heart anyway. With an elegant bow he answered, "Your kind words are appreciated." Then he strode off the stage.

* * *

The music was utterly enthralling, lifting her spirit and carrying it away to some other plane of existence. Yet at the same time she was utterly aware of everyone else's feelings, how they all felt what she felt, heard what she sang. It seemed, as her gaze swept the audience, that she was incredibly aware of how they all saw her.

Then her gaze fell on Raoul in the front row.

She stumbled, her singing stopping. The audience, still caught in her spell, didn't notice. But looking at Raoul, the man who had been her husband for ten years – the man whom she was betraying, if indirectly – made guilt twist in her stomach. She dropped her hands, fighting the struggle between continuing her song and simply running into the audience to rejoin her husband.

Look with your heart…

She closed her eyes, knowing that the pause must surely have gone on too long, but not caring right then. She searched within herself once more. The answer came quickly to her mind.

Erik.

But that didn't relieve the guilt. She could not just run away with Erik like this. Raoul deserved an explanation. And Gustave deserved the truth she had hidden from him for all his life – and a choice. He deserved the chance to decide with whom he wished to go – her and Erik, or Raoul. And though it would break her heart if he chose Raoul, she knew she would let her son go with the man he still called "Father" if he so wished. It would almost be fitting. Surely she could not commit adultery twice, without some form of punishment.

Christine opened her eyes, and began to sing once more.

The pause had not lasted more than a few seconds.

When it was over she took a sweeping bow, then rushed offstage amidst a tumult of roses hurled on to the stage. She was going so fast she did not see, and subsequently crashed, into her own son.

"Gustave!"

"Mother!" He hugged her, eyes bright with wonder. "You were wonderful, Mother! It was like – like listening to an angel sing!"

She laughed, wiping away sudden tears, then grasped Gustave in another tight hug. "And you have been wonderful through this entire ordeal, Gustave," she whispered. Who knew if this would be the last time she would see her son? A sigh shook her.

Gustave looked at her. "Mother? Is something wrong?"

She fixed a smile on her face. "It's nothing, dear." She stood, though one hand remained clasped on her son's shoulder, and looked around. "Where is Erik?" she asked him.

"He left."

Her reaction was not the one he expected; she turned toward him, face going bloodless. "What?"

Gustave backed away. "He – he left. He said he was going, so he – he went-" His eyes flew to the table, his mother's following; they widened when they fell upon the ring. She snatched at it desperately, clenching it in her fist, while a dull thud repeated in her head – too late, too late, too late again…

"Where, Gustave?" She shook him, holding the ring to his face. "Where did he go?"

"Mother!" She stopped shaking him, though her eyes were so wild they only terrified him more – particularly because he thought she might be happy now that he was gone.

Taking a breath, trying to calm herself, Christine asked, "Where did Erik go?"

Gustave pointed to the back door. Christine picked up her skirt and ran in that direction, though not before throwing back one more order.

"Stay here, Gustave!"

She almost flew through the stage area, even though the dress hampered her movement and her hair, falling apart from its bun, started to fly into her eyes. The door met her arms and lost, swinging open with a crash as she stumbled to a halt.

"Erik!"

She wailed his name, spun wildly down the empty alleyway, and gasped when she glimpsed a dark figure turning down a corner. Picking up the end of the dress once more, she ran, calling his name.

"Erik!"

The figure paused but did not turn. Emboldened, she slowed down her pace, though not enough to prevent her from almost falling into his back.

"Erik!" she cried, and when his back remained all she could see of him, grabbed his shoulders and spun him around to face her. "Oh, Erik," she whispered, and wrapped her arms around him. She was dismayed when he remained stiff, arms hanging limply at his side. Backing away, she touched his face, drawing him back into the darkened alleyway.

"Why did you run away?" she asked, still holding onto him. She felt as if she could never get enough of him, and she wanted to revel in this ability to just hold onto him, without fear of him or prying eyes or society's boundaries – well, not yet, her mind said, but she pushed it aside.

He looked down at her and answered with another question, in a much harsher tone. "Why did you follow me?"

"I – I-" Idiot, why couldn't she come out and say it? "The aria," she said lamely, "it was beautiful. I have never sung something so wonderful."

His mouth twitched in what might be a smile, but it did not reach his eyes. "Thank you for your praise. Now release me and go back to your husband, Christine." He tried to pry her hands off, but she only gripped harder. "I have to return to my business."

"Return?" she gasped. "What do you mean return? Aren't you – aren't we-"

He sighed, letting his arms fall, and said, "I am freeing you, Christine." His hand moved up – towards her face, she thought – then jerked back. In a whisper, he pleaded, "Do not make this any harder, Christine. Please, go back to your husband and-" a visible shudder, "-son. I have harmed you-"

"You have not-" she interrupted, but he continued on inexorably,

"I have wronged you…and brought you…so much sadness…and grief…" He shook himself free of her, shivering. "And I know – I know-" He swallowed. "I know – I cannot earn your forgiveness-"

"I for-"

"Do not…" He put a hand to her mouth. "You are a kind, gentle woman, Christine…but I know what lies within your heart."

"Erik!" she cried out, now shaking him as she had Gustave. "Listen to me! I know about that, and I forgive you! I love you, Erik, I love you!"

A stunned silence followed. Erik shook his head slowly, as if trapped in mud. "I do not understand," he croaked.

"Do not understand what…my love?" Christine asked, and it felt delightful to say that word to him. But he rocked back as if she had struck him.

"Why are you doing this?" he groaned, now reaching for her arms. "You know…it was so painful to let you go… why do you torment me so?" He sank down almost, form shuddering. "Why do you tell me these meaningless words?"

"They are not meaningless!" she exclaimed.

He shook his head, still trying to back away. "I know whom your heart belongs to," he said softly. "And I have accepted that it cannot ever be me." He sighed. "Though mine will always be in your grasp."

"I love you," she repeated, holding him tighter even as he struggled to escape. "I love you, Erik, I love you, how many more times must I say it? I love you!"

"How can you?" he suddenly burst out. "How can you, when I have manipulated you, threatened you, kidnapped you, wronged you?"

She stood still for a few moments. Finally, she answered, "I loved you back at the Opera House, Erik, though I was too foolish to ever see it. I was frightened, too, of your anger… and when you left me, who else could I turn to, but Raoul?"

"Then why do you not stay with him?" he asked miserably.

"Because these days I have spent with you, I have seen the man inside you, behind this mask." Carefully, she pulled the white leather piece away, looking upon his deformity once more with neither fear nor pity. "I have looked inside your heart, and my own. I love you, Erik. I have always loved you."

He took in her words with growing hope. But when they ended, he seemed to force himself back into a reality. He shook his head. "You are lying…" He stroked her cheek tentatively. "You are a wonderful woman. Christine… I know you mean only to comfort me…" He smiled slightly. "But… if I may…could I ask for…one more kiss from you?"

She laughed, feeling tears creep up on her, for who had ever asked for something as sweet and simple as a kiss? "I will give you that, and more, Erik," she said, and then pressed her lips to his. It was passionate and consuming; it felt as if her whole body were melting into his. When she pulled apart she could see a light dancing within him, yet he looked beyond her, at some vision he could only see and which he might never possess.

"I love you," she said again, stroking his deformed cheek. "Erik, I love you, and I will stay with you, for the rest of my life. Erik…" She touched his other cheek. "Erik, please, say something."

He stepped out of her arms, blinking in a daze. "I…cannot…believe you…"

She smiled, tears starting to overflow. "Please…I am not lying to you, Erik." She kissed first one cheek, then the other. "I love you."

He shook his head. "This…must be…a dream…"

She said, "Then may we never wake up."

He touched her bare arms, moving up to her shoulders and the necklace he had placed on her minutes – it felt like years – ago, and then pushed aside a strand of her fallen hair. "Christine…" He leaned in, feeling her warm breath on his own malformed lips. "Please say…you are not lying…"

"I love you," she repeated, pulling him in for another kiss.

When he came apart she could see the hope dawning in his eyes. "I love you, Christine," he said, almost shyly. "I would stay with you forever…if you would have me."

For a moment she thought of Raoul. Once she had made this vow with Raoul. But she knew, deep inside, that her love for Raoul was of a childhood friendship, one borne of habit and safety and comfort. The love for Erik was that for a kindred spirit, a man who inspired her in so many ways, one of passion and intimacy and so much more.

"I will," she answered. She opened her fist, revealing the ring, which she had squeezed so tightly it had formed a red imprint in her skin. He stared down at it quizzically, and even more so when she slipped it back on to his hand.

"I will," she repeated, "if you would have…me."

His answer was a shy squeeze of her body to his. She folded herself into him and kissed his deformed cheek, touching that part of his face, the exposed part of his skull under his wig, leaving no crevasse uncovered.

Erik was crying, shoulders shaking as he struggled to repress the sobs. Christine held him, letting him feel all her love.

Presently it ended, and he laid his head against hers, breathing in the scent of her hair. There was a welling of feeling, a lifting in his heart that he had never before experienced. He did not know whether it was hope, or joy, or even love, merely that it was the happiest he had ever felt.

"Christine…" He could do no more than whisper her name. "My Christine…" He sighed. "I don't think I could let you go again… not this time. You would have to stay with me for the rest of your life…"

She held him tightly, letting him see all her love, all her willingness. "I will, Erik. Forever." She looked back at him. "If you do not leave me again."

"I won't." He grabbed at her, burying his head in her shoulder. "Not ever."

They stood together, holding onto one another, for several moments. Christine felt a contentedness spread through her, a feeling of rightness. She had finally made the right choice.

Erik gently broke away from her, though there remained a soft smile. He touched her hair again, sighing. "We should get back," he murmured.

She nodded. "Gustave…we should get…our son." She felt his arms tighten around her body. "And I need to tell Raoul."

"No!" In an instant the peace disappeared, to be replaced by overwhelming fury. "You will not go back to him! We will take the boy and go back to my home!"

"Erik!" she protested.

"You will not go to him, you will not see him!" he said furiously. "Is that clear?"

She pulled away, wanting to shout at him for thinking he could still order her around – but when she looked more closely into his eyes she sighed. Underneath the anger was fear, that she would see Raoul's handsome face and forget him, that she would leave him as he once left her – fear that he would lose her. It was understandable, for he had lost her time and again, and even when she was his, the experience of all the combined years had taught him to grasp onto what he could hold lest it depart.

Well, there were to be plenty more years to teach him otherwise, Christine thought to herself as she hugged him. Out loud, she said, "All right, Erik. I won't see him." But she added, "I will have to send him a note or something of that sort, you know." She gripped him tightly as she spoke the next words. "He was my husband for ten years. I cannot just abandon him." Inwardly she begged him to see reason.

He grabbed her arm. "But you will not see him?" he whispered intently.

She shook her head.

He sighed, released her arm. "Very well. One letter." Then, as if wanting to get off the topic, he said, "Go get Gustave, then meet me out here. We will…return to my home."

"Our home," she corrected softly.

There was wonder on his face when he nodded. "Our home."

She started to return, then changed her mind and took his hand in hers. "Come in with me," she said. "Gustave should know by now. I want him to see you."

He hesitated. "He does not see me as his father," he said. "I am a stranger."

"But he should know the truth, and you should be there when I tell him," she argued. "And he may, in time, come to see you as his real father."

After a moment, he nodded, following her back inside.

* * *

Hmmm...

Nope, nothing to say. Other than perhaps the decision was too fast. *Sigh* And now you know who I ship (if you hadn't guessed already).

Oh yes, and we are nowhere _near_ the ending. Still got ten chapters to go, yay!


	14. Chapter 14

This chapter is in loving memory of my first flame. May it shine brightly in my inbox.

Chapter 14

Christine had been there.

Raoul had sat in the very front row, fingers clutching the pistol with such force his hand had gone numb. As the minutes ticked down he had waited, part of him in rising anticipation, the other part waiting for disappointment. Surely the cursed Phantom would not be so stupid as to actually let his captive out to sing.

Then the orchestra had started to play; the curtains had opened; and out stepped Christine, in a simple yet beautiful gown, the only decoration a lavish necklace. For one brief second he had wanted to jump onto the stage and grab her, whisk her back to Paris where they would be safe.

Then she had started to sing.

And even Raoul, who was not a music aficionado, had felt himself swept away, not just by the complex harmonies, but by the pure quality of his wife's voice, which he had gone so long without hearing, and by the soaring emotion clear in every line. Her gaze had swept over the audience, including him and everyone else in the timeless song about love.

When it was over, he still could not shake himself of the spell. In the song, everything seemed safe and all right. But it had broken when Christine had executed a curtsey and the curtains had closed. Then he had come crashing back to reality. His wife had simply left. Surely she had seen him. Surely she wanted to escape.

Gustave. Gustave must still be with that demon.

He had leaped to his feet and tried to make his way backstage, but the crowds were horrific, all of them talking of the performance, half going for the exit and half trying to reach backstage as well. Raoul had pushed and shouted himself hoarse trying to get through, and endless minutes had been wasted.

He had looked desperately for another way, and suddenly caught the stage. Every aristocratic instinct in him told him not to, but his desperation was paramount. Ignoring the cries around him, he had leaped around the orchestra pit and onto the stage, and was behind the curtain before the stage manager, or anyone else for that matter, was able to stop him.

Gun out, he searched frantically for his wife and son.

* * *

Erik had never thought he could feel anything like this – the touch of Christine's fingers intertwined with his, the flash of happiness that crossed her face when she looked back at him, the reassuring sight of her running ahead of him. It felt like a dream from which he must soon awake.

But she had kissed him. She had held him, touched him, and when he caught up to her, whispered of things that might happen later – living with him, with her (their) son, a wedding, and…she had left him hanging after that, though the teasing look she offered spoke of so much more. He felt a hard ache within him. Ten years had passed since that taste of true happiness, ten years in which he had all but buried those feelings. Yet one soft smile could reignite it all…

"Gustave!" Christine caught sight of her son and ran to him. The boy, however, only saw Erik behind her, and stared disbelievingly.

"Mother?" he said, the unspoken question making his voice rise.

Christine smiled hesitantly. "Gustave…there is so much to tell you."

Erik saw Gustave step back slightly, and felt a painful tightening in his chest. The boy's kind words had only been said because he had thought Erik to be leaving for good.

Christine held her son's hand. "Gustave, I am going with Erik. And I want you to come with me."

He lifted shocked eyes to Erik, then back to his mother. "Why?" he cried out. "Why are you going with him?" He didn't bother dropping his voice, so distraught was he at this turn of events. "You said we could leave after your performance! You said we would run away!"

Christine shook her head, guilt flitting across her face. "No, Gustave…many things have changed." She took a breath, holding her son steady. "Gustave, Erik is-"

"Christine!"

Erik lifted his head at the voice, grinding his teeth. The Vicomte. In three strides he was at Christine and Gustave's side and had them in his grasp. There was no way in hell that pompous aristocrat would take them from him.

Christine gasped, but this time she did not call out. She grabbed her son and started to pull him away.

But Gustave cried out, "Father!"

"No, Gustave!" Christine exclaimed, trying to silence him. To Erik, she whispered, "Let's leave, Erik. Right now!"

Erik could not agree more. Holding onto her arm, he ran back to the doorway.

"Stop! Let them go, you demon!"

Erik paused, a smirk crossing his face. Slowly, deliberately, he turned, holding Christine's arm possessively. She was his now. The Vicomte had no power over him anymore.

"Raoul!" Christine cried. "Let me explain-"

Raoul lifted his arm, revealing a pistol. Erik actually snorted.

"Are you going to shoot me, boy?" he shouted across the backstage area.

Raoul's grip did not waver. "Let them go!"

Christine tried to struggle free; at Erik she hissed, "Let me go! Please, Erik, let me talk to him! I just need to explain to him!"

"Let her go!" Raoul yelled once more, misunderstanding her attempts to free herself. "Release her, or I will shoot you where you stand!" His fingers tightened over the handle. "Do you think I am playing, Phantom? Monster?"

Erik laughed. "No, I do not think that, boy! I think you are playing at a game you have no understanding of!" He pulled Christine to his side. "She loves me!" he said triumphantly. "She has chosen to stay with me, Vicomte!" He pressed her even harder, though she struggled for release.

"Let her go!" And the foolish man actually looked as if he were about to cry, Erik thought with disgust. Raoul pleaded, "Please, she has done nothing to you! Just let her go, and I promise-"

"Are you deaf, boy, or just stupid?" Erik shouted, frustration starting to grow. "Christine loves me!"

"You tricked her, manipulated her!" Raoul answered, drawing closer, gun still aimed at him. Yet Erik felt no fear; Christine's love had erected a wall of invincibility around him. Nothing this boy did would affect him.

"Raoul!" Christine called from Erik's grasp. "Raoul, please-"

"She stays with me!" Erik said over her pleading. "Turn around, Vicomte, or I will have to do something Christine will regret."

Raoul paused at those words. But then he scowled. "You have brainwashed her!" he roared. "You have used her, forced her to your will!"

"No!" Christine screamed. "Raoul!"

"You are a monster! A demon from hell itself! She would never love you!"

Erik felt something within him snap. He released Christine and rushed towards the Vicomte, hand going automatically for the lasso he no longer carried –

He saw the Vicomte's eyes widen in terror at his approach – then saw the gun rise and skidded to a halt, ready to dodge aside – and he felt a sudden wind, saw a flash of lavender –

"No, Raoul! Stop!"

A shove to his side, combined with his own unbalanced position as he turned, sent him sprawling to the ground. An instant later, the boom of a gunshot echoed throughout the cavernous hall. From a great distance, it seemed, came Gustave's scream.

Erik pulled himself up, eyes moving quickly to Raoul. Who would have thought the boy had the courage to shoot? He sneered at the horrified expression on his face. Obviously, he had no idea what killing entailed.

Raoul dropped the gun; the clatter as it hit the ground was quite loud. Then he groaned.

"Christine…"

A fluttering panic arose in Erik's stomach as he searched for Christine. He caught her with some relief, standing a little apart from him. Erik stood, going to her. She was breathing shallowly, bent over slightly.

"Christine?" he murmured, holding her hand. "It's over. I'm-"

I'm all right, he meant to say. How selfish of him, how foolish that he had not thought of her.

Christine collapsed against him, her hand falling from her side. Erik saw, with numb disbelief, that she was bleeding.

"No…" he whispered. "No…no…" Christine shuddered in his arms, blood draining rapidly from her face. She raised bloody fingers to his face.

"I feel…so cold…" she said weakly.

"No!" And he screamed, falling to his knees, clutching at her thin, shaking body. "No! No, Christine, you can't die, you can't leave me…"

He was vaguely aware of Raoul and Gustave drawing nearer, but only when he saw Gustave's small hand on Christine's shoulder did he fully register their existence.

"Mother?" Gustave said in a small voice. "Mother…please get up. Please."

Raoul pulled the boy away gently, kneeling at Christine's side. Her eyes flicked towards him, and Erik felt a hot jealousy combine with his overwhelming grief.

"Raoul…"

Her husband clutched her hand. "I'm so sorry, Christine…" he whispered. "I'm so sorry…I tried so hard…I didn't mean to…"

The jealousy and grief combined into a potent anger. Erik itched to grab the gun and kill the man where he sat, to do something, anything, to relieve the terror, the feeling that all his potential happiness was slipping away from him.

"I'm so sorry…" Christine said quietly to Raoul, clearly weakening.

He shook his head. "Christine, it's all my fault…" There were tears dripping down his face too. "I shouldn't have brought you here…I shouldn't have…" He grasped her hand. "Oh, God, it's my fault…"

She shushed him. "Raoul…I'm so sorry…for what I have…done…" She paused, taking quick, panting breaths. "I… love…Erik…" Her husband's eyes widened in shock, and Erik finally felt a tiny bit of sympathy. Christine whispered, "Gustave… Gustave… your real father….is…Erik."

Gustave stared at her, then at Raoul, equally shell-shocked, then finally at Erik. Erik gazed back, eyes dead, no longer caring.

But then he felt Christine's touch, her bloodstained fingers tracing his cheek.

"Erik…oh, Erik…" She was tearless, yet her eyes looked overbright, gazing at him with more love than he had ever seen. "Take care of him…"

He nodded, unable to speak. Her breaths were growing slower, shallower.

She whispered, "Kiss me, one last time…I love you, Erik…"

He bent down, gripping her arm, holding her head, and kissed her. He felt her giving everything, all her remaining energy and spirit and life, into this last kiss; in it he felt years of love and devotion being expressed.

And then he felt her lips grow cold, her body heavy, and when he pulled away her eyes were closed, and she was merely a lifeless shell in his arms. But it was only when Raoul pulled her body away did it at last sink in. Christine was dead.

The pain was more than he thought he could bear. Forcing himself to leave her had been nothing compared to this. That had been a raw, ripping tear in his heart. This felt as if his very soul was being consumed. What kind of life would there be, without Christine?

He sank to the ground, wrapping his arms around himself, and sobbed, even though the tears helped so little, even though none of it relieved the pain that spread all over his body.

* * *

_Your real father is Erik._

Gustave sat still as his mother died. He saw his father – who was not his father – take her, crying. Then he saw Erik – his real father, he thought incredulously – sink completely into himself and cry. Gustave had never seen anybody cry the way Erik did – as if his entire world had fallen apart.

Raoul cradled Christine in his arms, then looked up at the boy he had thought was his son. Still there was no anger in his eyes, only compassion mixed with sadness.

"Gustave," he murmured. "You heard your mother, didn't you?" When Gustave nodded, Raoul said slowly, "Then you know who your real father is."

Erik. Gustave looked at Erik again and wished his mother would get up and hold him and explain it all away. She had always found a way to make it all better. A hard lump rose in his throat, burning in the back of his mouth and forcing tears to his eyes so that he could not speak. It was not fair. He wanted his mother back. He closed his eyes, hoping that maybe, when he opened them, his mother would be all right, that she would get up and tell him that it was all a silly daydream.

Instead, he heard his father – Raoul's – quiet voice.

"I have tickets back to Paris, Gustave," he said. "I'm…taking Christine back there." He paused, taking several long, shuddering breaths. "I will bury her…next to her father." Raoul suddenly dropped his gaze, voice dangerously close to breaking. "She…would have…loved that."

Gustave felt the terror coil up within him. It was all real. It was all happening. His mother, who had sung to him and danced with him and comforted him, was really gone. No, his mind cried. He squeezed his eyes tighter shut, willing for everything to disappear.

After a moment, Raoul continued. "Gustave…who do you wish to stay with?" He paused. "I love you. Even if you are not my son…you are, to me, Gustave. But if you wish…to go with…your true father…" His voice caught for a moment. "…I will not hold it against you…Gustave…"

Gustave opened his eyes and found himself facing Raoul. Then he turned and gazed at Erik. When he closed his eyes, he saw Erik, throwing him to the ground when he had caught the boy at his piano…he saw him yelling at Gustave…shoving him into his home and imprisoning him… How could he even think of staying with Erik, even if he was his true father?

Then, unbidden, came another memory, of Erik, teaching him to swim, the gentleness and care he had displayed, the patience while teaching him, and how he had gazed at Gustave for one brief instant, when Gustave had looked up at him in an unguarded moment. There had only been devotion and love in that gaze.

Gustave moved towards Erik, sitting all alone. His sobs had ended, but there was a dead quality to the man now, as if all his spirit had been sucked away, leaving a hollow shell. His entire reason for living had just died, Gustave realized. And that frightened the boy, for if he went with Erik…he realized he would have to replace his mother, would have to become his own father's reason for being.

Gustave hesitated. Then he reached over and tugged at Erik's mask. As it came off, he felt the hair underneath shift oddly, and, realizing what it meant, pulled off the wig, revealing Erik's true face.

It was more terrible than he remembered. The deformed scars, the lumps, the malformed lips and eye, all remained, and more. Now he could truly see the exposed skull, and how little hair his father had; mere wisps of blondeness.

Erik looked up at him mutely, all defenses stripped, and by his own son. And now Gustave stared back quietly. This was his father, he repeated to himself. Whatever the man was, Gustave had come from him, would understand, at some deep level, what he was feeling. And that made all the difference in the world.

He crossed the chasm separating them and embraced his father.

Erik stiffened in surprise, vaguely stunned that he could still feel that much. Every emotion and thought seemed to be shrouded, dulled, coming to him slowly and with none of their usual force. But the soft little body resting against him kindled some deep, long-hidden feelings within him. Very, very slowly, he lifted his arms and hugged the boy. Gustave responded by squeezing tighter, resting his own smooth cheek against his father's lumpy one.

In the very back of his mind, Gustave heard Raoul leave and felt sudden fear overwhelm him. He truly had no idea what would happen next. But for that one moment, neither the pain-filled past, nor the uncertain future, mattered. All that mattered was himself and his father.

* * *

The End

I'm kidding. KIDDING! I did say there were going to be roughly ten more chapters, didn't I? You probably all hate me right now, don't you?


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

Raoul clutched Christine's body to himself as resignation swept over him. Christine was dead, Christine, the only woman he would ever love. And Gustave, whom he raised as his own son, was leaving as well. Deep down, he had always suspected that Gustave was not his son. The musical ability of Gustave's was only the tip of the iceberg; the boy had an insatiable curiosity, an ability to suck in information, that neither he nor Christine had ever had.

And Raoul had suspected that Christine's feelings for the Phantom of the Opera had been more than simple fear. But he had hoped that Christine would forget these in time. And it seemed she had, until now.

Raoul saw the Phantom's arm come over Gustave's shoulder, and sighed. Whatever the man had been, there had been no denying his love for Christine. In that, and only in that, they were the same. And he could only hope that this love be extended to Gustave.

The boy released his grip on Erik and came over to Erik. Gustave's eyes were red and swollen, and the tears started once more as he looked at his mother's body.

"Mommy…"

Raoul gripped Gustave's shoulder. "Gustave…shhh…."

The boy started to run to Raoul, then stopped himself, gulping back tears. He looked back at Erik, and Raoul could already see the boy's loyalty forming.

"Come now, Gustave," he whispered. "It's all right…"

The boy hugged him. Raoul held him for only a moment. He was no longer the boy's father…but he wanted to be with the boy for just a few more moments, before leaving him to the Phantom…to Erik.

He pushed the boy from him gently, then knelt down, still cradling Christine in his arms. "Gustave…I'm going to be leaving soon." Gustave's tears started anew. Raoul grabbed his hand and said, "You are with your father, Gustave. Your real father. And I know…I know it will be hard at first…but it will get easier." He looked over at Erik. "I knew your father. When he loves…it lasts forever. He won't ever forget. You only have to find it."

Gustave nodded, hiccupping slightly as his crying subsided.

Raoul kissed his head, and Gustave, who had refused such gestures for several years, accepted it. "I love you, Gustave. Even if you were not my son, I loved you."

And Raoul stood and left them. Because he knew, at last, that there had been no evil motives behind Erik's actions. There had only been love.

* * *

Later, Erik would not be able to recall how exactly he made his way back to his home. The only sensations he would remember was the slight tingle in his leg as he stood after having sat for too long, of Gustave's small body leaning against his own…and later, of the boy tugging on his hand and giving back his mask and wig.

He had only barely survived ten years without Christine. And now he was facing her death…a lifetime without her. The grief was overwhelming , a blackness devoid of emotion or thought that beckoned to him – a place without the raw pain or the emptiness or the constant pictures in his mind of what-could-have-been…

He looked into it, and without a thought for his park, for his own life, or for his son, he succumbed to it.

After that, he remembered nothing.

* * *

Gustave followed his father to the carriage, past the throng of concert-goers. In the darkness Erik's mask did not attract much attention, and they made their way to the carriage without trouble. The freaks – a more subdued group now – brought them back to the Aerie, and held open the door as Erik stumbled up the long flight of stairs.

Then he collapsed on the sofa and didn't speak or move for the rest of the night.

Gustave pushed at him. "Fa-" He couldn't call him by that title, not yet, and switched mid-word. "Fa-Erik. Erik?" The man remained motionless, eyes glazed. Gustave moved away, finding a room he had never been allowed to enter. He pushed open the door, half-expecting Erik to run up and stop him. But nothing happens.

He crossed the room, expecting Erik's room to be as full of wonder as the main room, but found it to be quite ordinary. There is a bed against the side, unmade and nowhere near as magnificent as the other bedroom's. A table at the side across from Gustave held all sorts of small objects and blueprints, as did another desk to his right, but Gustave for once could not feel any curiosity, only a sense of numbness. He wanted his mother back. And when he searched deep down, he heard his most shameful thought. He wished it had been Erik who had died, and not his mother.

He forced his mind away from that thought and jerked a cover from the bed, piling it into his arms before trotting back out. Erik lay on the couch in the same position; the only difference was that he had closed his eyes. Gustave, feeling all out of place, threw the blanket over him. He waited a few moments for some change, some sign that his father who was not acting at all like a father, had noticed. There was none.

So Gustave went to the bedroom. Yet as soon as he entered he felt a sense of dread. He could not see any of the furniture or clothing without a terrible sickness gripping him. Maybe, if he wished hard enough, he would open his eyes and see his mother walking around, trying on the dresses, putting on a bit of perfume…

It didn't work. But it did make the room even more painful to be in. He curled under the covers, hoping the pain might go away, but it only made him think of his mother again, and how she had held him when he was scared, and sang to him…

He buried his face in the pillow and felt a cold patch against his cheek as his tears wet the bed. But when he had no more tears to shed, the overwhelming ache in his chest felt just as gaping and open. Exhausted by the long night and by his own grief, he fell asleep.

He awoke restless hours at the pounding of the front door. It was only lucky that he had left the door to his own bedroom open, or else he might have slept right through it. Groggily, he stumbled out, only remembering at the last moment to check on his own father. The sofa was empty, but the door to the other bedroom was closed. Gustave felt a little relief creep in. It had been horrifying to lose his mother, but deeper still was a child's fear of being alone without a parent. Erik's behavior had fueled that fear, for he had never seen any adult simply go lifeless.

He opened the door and stared at the three freaks, their normally pale, expressionless faces filled with concern.

Their gazes dropped to him. After a few moments, the bird-woman swept a bow and whispered, "You are the master's child."

Gustave swallowed, accepting that fact. The words drove a spike of fear within him; three days had not been enough to fully acquaint him with Phantasma and Erik. And now he realized that the man he had called 'Father' for all his life was also gone, back to France. Suddenly, he felt all alone, with only a man he barely knew and whom he still feared.

"Is the Master here?" asked the gangly man.

Gustave nodded.

The strong man asked, "May we see him?"

Gustave shook his head.

"Why not?" the three asked simultaneously.

Gustave's throat felt raw and unused. "He's…not well," he managed. Then he had to hide his face, for saying it reminded him of the cause.

The three drooped their heads as well. "We are sorry," they murmured together.

After a pause, the thin man pressed on. "But the park must run."

Gustave felt another weight of fear. He had no idea what to do, and he only said the first thing that came to mind. "Can you do it?"

The bird-woman cocked her head. "Can we run it?"

The thin man pondered the question. "Do you mean…run it as we always have?"

Gustave nodded wearily, knowing he was far out of his depth. Yet the three freaks had elevated him to his… Erik's… position, just because he was his…son.

The strong man – Squelch, Gustave finally remembered – said in his gravelly voice, "Perhaps. But only for a few days. Will the Master be well by then?"

Gustave had no answer, but it seemed good enough for the three. The two men left, but Fleck stayed behind to hand him a basket of food.

"For the master," she whispered. Then she too left.

Gustave set the basket on the table and explored around. He flipped on all the lights, though the room retained an eerie sense of darkness and mystery nonetheless. Next, he uncovered all the automatons – the skeleton butler, the aeronautic woman, the chandelier. After some searching, he found an icebox, sticking his hand in the coolness, and above it, small drawers and cupboards. There were only two sets of utensils and dishes, but an ingenious running water system through the sink to wash it.

To finish exploring was an action he gave up reluctantly. It had given him purpose, taken his mind off of his mother. When he lifted his head he almost expected to see her at the sofa, watching him run about with her soft smile… He gulped back the tears quickly and, wanting something, anything, to help him forget, he laid out the food. He then carried a plate into his father's room, but was met by an obstacle: the door was locked.

He knocked. "Erik?" He held out the dish of food even though he knew the man would not be able to see. "Erik? I have…food."

There was no answer. He wondered if Erik was feeling as he did. The food might as well have been dirt to him, so little appetite did he retain. Eventually, he set the food down at the door and went back to the table. He spent breakfast, then lunch, and later dinner, alone.

The day passed slowly. He slept a great deal. It was the only time when he wouldn't feel sad. But he hated it, too, because he always dreamt of his mother. And the worst part was that they weren't nightmares; they were ordinary dreams. Many of them were of her playing with him back at his home in Paris. Sometimes he could almost feel her wrapping her arms around him…then he would wake up, thinking he was back at his home and that nothing had happened, and hate when he found it had all been a dream.

But his waking moments were even more unpleasant. Erik stayed locked in his room for the whole day, though Gustave had no idea what he was doing. He did not care either. His real father was a stranger, a stranger who acted as if he, Gustave, did not exist. He tried to read the books and could only hear his mother's voice in his head, reading stories to him; he tried to play music but stopped when he heard her singing; he played with the automatons, and heard her echoing lectures about seeing the true self underneath.

That was how the first day passed.

The second day was even more lonesome. Not even the freaks visited. Gustave left the food at Erik's door and picked it up a few hours later, always untouched. Sometimes he wondered if Erik was actually in his room, was even alive, for he heard no movement. His only evidence was that the door could not be locked from the outside; somebody had to be in there to lock it.

Another day and night passed.

The third day he knocked.

"Erik?" His voice sounded tired even to himself, and he was – tired of being alone, tired of crying himself to sleep and waking up without his mother, tired of a father who was not being a father. "Erik?"

His only answer was silence. He peered at the hole, wondering if he could lockpick it. He had never done something so…mischievous…before. But he was growing desperate.

"Erik? Please open up." He sat down. "I'll wait."

He leaned against the door, waiting, waiting. When nothing happened, he shifted position so that he was against the wall instead, and closed his eyes.

He was startled awake when he heard the door being opened, and looked up in time to see a dark shape moving back. Scrambling to his feet, he followed, stumbling in the dark.

Erik – his father – sat on the bed, head drooping. Gustave found himself at a loss. He was an intelligent and kind boy, but a boy nonetheless. He had no idea how to comfort an adult who was clearly grieving worse than he. But he sat next to the man and watched him. When that was too difficult, he lit a candle and then resumed his place. But just as it seemed Erik had settled back into ignoring his son's existence, Gustave leaned against him and closed his eyes.

And at long last, he felt Erik encircle him to his side.

* * *

He woke up in his own bed the next morning; remembering last night, he crawled out in a slightly more eager way than the last two days, thinking to see Erik outside and working. He was roundly disappointed, finding his father still in his room, only this time he was lying on the bed.

So he crawled back to his side and tugged at his shirt sleeve.

"Erik?" He wondered when he would have to start calling him 'Father', but pushed the thought aside; Erik had not insisted, and until he did, or until Gustave felt comfortable doing so (and it didn't seem likely at all right now), he would continued calling him 'Erik'. "Erik? Are you going to get up?"

Silence reigned. Gustave was on the verge of giving up when he had an idea.

He went out to the main room once more and sat at the piano. There were no papers, no music sheets, and no scores, but it didn't matter. He closed his eyes and heard, stronger than ever before, the tune in his head. It flowed through him so deeply that he felt as if he was a mere conduit for the music, and all he had to do was put his fingers to the piano keys and play. And the pain of remembering his mother, while there for an instant, soon faded against the tide of music, until he was lost in his own world.

He only came back to reality when he felt, almost hyper-sensitive, the movement of someone near him. In a half-daze, he opened his eyes and saw Erik sitting beside him, staring at his playing with the strangest expression. When he paused, Erik placed his hands over Gustave's and moved them to different keys, playing another melody.

When Gustave finished, mentally and physically exhausted, he felt a tentative touch on his shoulder, and turned to see Erik gazing at him with a distinctly puzzled glance.

"How could I have ever created someone like you?" Erik asked, almost to himself. He raised a hand and laid it on Gustave's right cheek. Gustave didn't say anything; he wouldn't have known what to say.

After a moment, Erik dropped his hand and left the piano.

* * *

Having finally driven his father from his grief, Gustave was not about to let him go back to wallowing in self-pity again. He begged, he coaxed, he cajoled, and sometimes he outright screamed, for his father to join him in the main room, and when he couldn't manage that, he joined the grieving man in his room forced him to show him all the things he had hidden within. It was something to do, and it made life without his mother bearable, if only for a few moments.

"What is this?" Gustave pointed to a small drawing of an ornately decorated building; the writing beneath it was spidery and faded and much too difficult for him to make out.

"A drawing of the opera house in Paris," Erik told him.

"Did you draw it?"

"I did." Erik walked away from it quickly. Gustave quickly riffled through the desk, for surely his father had drawing materials somewhere. Indeed he did, stuffed haphazardly into the bottom drawer into boxes of varying sizes. There were all kinds of materials within – paints, charcoal, both oil and dry pastels, as well as a variety of pencils and brushes and palettes – but all were disorganized, with seemingly no rhyme or reason to it all. To top it off, there was also a layer of dust over it, and Gustave knew his father had not drawn in some time.

"Are these the things you used to draw?" he asked Erik, pulling out a handful of sticky pastels.

Erik moved over and took them away; they left colorful, waxy marks all over the boy's hands. "They are."

"Can you teach me?"

"Gustave..."

Sensing Erik's return to his death-like state, Gustave exclaimed, "Please? _Please_? Just a little bit!"

His father sighed but sat the boy down at the desk. "We shall start with pencils," he said, and placed one in his son's hand. From another drawer he pulled out a sheet of paper. "Start with simple objects, something not too detailed. Yes, like that." He guided Gustave's hand. "Even strokes…" he continued. "Just sketch out the outlines. Don't worry about the shadows and the details yet."

Gustave frowned, a little furrow between his brows as he concentrated. Erik looked at him with a brief, almost puzzled glance, but when Gustave looked up at him he glanced back down at his son's drawing.

"Find the light source of the object, and then you can draw the shadows...see, parts here are lighter, while ones there are darker..."

When Gustave was able to draw a good representation of a bowl, Erik ended the lessons.

"But I haven't learned everything yet!" protested Gustave.

"Those were the basics; from there, just draw. You will get better with time." Erik sighed, putting a hand to his forehead. "And I am tired Gustave. I will teach more tomorrow."

"But I want to learn more!"

"I said no."

"But-"

"What part of 'no' do you not understand?" he shouted, turning on the boy.

Gustave went quiet, and left the room meekly. Erik reached out for him as he passed, then stopped himself. He would not have known what to do anyway.

These were the days when Erik would wonder what Christine was thinking when she asked him to take care of her son. How could he be a father when his own had died before he was born and his only other parent had hated him because of his face? Other days, Gustave would persuade his father into coming back into the main room, and explore with Erik at his side.

"Are these your own designs?" he asked once, poring over a set of blueprints. Judging by their yellowed state, some were quite old, and wildly different in design and planning from others. It was only as he neared the more recent papers did he realize that they were plans for the concert hall. Erik, knowing this already, shoved the papers from the desk.

"Never mind about them," he said shortly.

Gustave tugged at his arm. "You designed architecture?" How many more surprises could his father hold? "Could you teach me that, too?"

He was glad when his father laughed, if only for a moment. "I cannot teach you all of architecture in a few hours, Gustave." He waved a hand over his room. "Find something simpler, boy. No – not the automatons!"

Gustave moved away from the frozen mechanical people to the bookshelves. "What language is this?" he asked, pointing to a set. He knew French, English, and a smattering of Spanish – what every nobleman's child might know – but this was more than he had ever been exposed to.

Erik came by. "It's Russian."

"It looks strange."

"It uses a different alphabet. That doesn't make it strange."

There was a biting note in his Erik's voice that scared Gustave; quickly he pointed to a book with curling calligraphy down its spine. "And that?" He stroked the soft leather. "It's pretty."

"Persian," said Erik brusquely, standing back up.

Gustave followed him back to his desk. "How many languages do you know?" he asked.

"Many."

"You learned them all by yourself?"

"I had to. I had no teachers of my own."

The remark – perhaps a subtle insult, perhaps only an observation – silenced Gustave. But only for a moment.

"Did you read all these yourself?" There were so many topics covered that Gustave could not really believe he had.

"Of course." Erik sounded slightly indignant.

"So you know…everything?"

Another quiet laugh. "I don't think I know everything – but a good deal of the world's knowledge, I do know."

Gustave pulled out a book at random. "Teach me?"

Erik looked at the title and smirked. "This is a book on alchemy, which is not only disproven, but is also very, very complex. Perhaps it's only use is that it was a precursor to the study of the chemicals and elements." He set it back. "I could not teach you much at all from here, Gustave. A great deal of the basics must be learned first."

"Can you teach me that?"

"…Not today, Gustave. I'm…tired." He slumped down on the sofa. Gustave hurriedly hopped beside him, tugging at his sleeve.

"Are you a genius?" he asked.

Erik looked at him sideways. "I really don't know," he answered.

Gustave replied, "I think you are." He sighed. "I wish I was a genius."

Erik placed a tentative hand on his shoulder. "You are, Gustave," he said. "Musically and otherwise." A pause. "If that is all that you inherit from me…I think I would be satisfied." His hand brushed over the side of Gustave's face. A sigh. "Bedtime for you."

Gustave had no idea how he knew what time it was; he simply assumed it was another of Erik's near-mythic abilities. He did, however, protest, "But I'm not tired!"

A ghost of smile flitted across his father's face. "That's something else you have inherited from me." Yet he stood and pulled at Gustave's hand. "You need your sleep, though. Bathe, then to bed with you."

The boy slouched off. When he had disappeared into the bedroom, Erik let out a sigh and made his way to his own room. He was tired, tired to the bone, a constant aching fatigue that never went away no matter how much he rested. He had a taste of bliss, at the end of Christine's aria, one he had hoped would last the rest of his life. Christine's death had stolen the light from his life; he would live the rest of it in darkness.

Christine…

He dropped to his bed, pulling off the mask and wig and letting them drop from nerveless fingers. Why did you leave me with a son? A son I cannot take care of? He was not a father; he could not be a father, because he did not know how to be one. All he had ever wanted in his life was Christine.

He had been a father to Christine…

No, he had been a mentor and a teacher, but never a father. He had filled a hole in Christine's life; he could not fill it for Gustave. He had not been one the past few days, when he had been so sunk in grief he could not be bothered to even take care of himself, let alone a ten-year-old boy.

He pulled himself from the bed, meaning to go wash his face in the adjoining bathroom. A quiet noise behind him, however, made him whirl about. Gustave was standing at the doorway, but at the sight of Erik's face he made a little squeak of – Erik could only interpret it as fear.

Sudden, impotent rage filled him, that the boy should intrude upon him and that he should still be frightened. In seconds he was looming above him, shouting, "What are you doing in here?"

Gustave cowered. "Nothing-"

"Nothing? Then get out!" He pushed the boy back, made to slam the door, and was stunned when Gustave managed to slip back in.

"I was – I was-"

"Spit it out, boy!"

"I wanted – a bedtime story…" He held up a book, almost like a shield.

Erik laughed, the mirthless, frightening laugh he had used to scare the ballet rats so many years ago. "A bedtime story?" He grabbed the book and tossed it into a corner. "Go to bed, child. I will not be reading you fairly tales."

"But I'm lonely…"

He snapped, "Then deal with it yourself!" Angry at Gustave, angry at himself for snapping, he whirled around, covering his hideous deformity with his hand.

Another movement made him turn again; what was the boy doing?

Gustave's eyes were red, but he was not crying. He only pulled at Erik's hand.

"Can I have…a goodnight kiss? Please?" He wiped furiously at his eyes. Another thing he had inherited from himself, Erik thought ruefully: he hated to be seen crying.

Gustave went on, "Mother…Mother always kissed me goodnight. Could I?"

His anger melted away, replaced only by dull guilt. How many times had he asked his mother for so small a gift? And she had not been the deformed one… He felt that queer sense of déjà vu, of his world spinning around.

He bent down to his son and touched Gustave's forehead. "Goodnight, Gustave."

To his utter shock, the boy tugged away the hand covering his deformity, and without a trace of fear or disgust, kissed his scarred, lumpy cheek. "Goodnight, Erik," he said. After retrieving his book, Gustave went back to his room, closing the door behind him and leaving his father, still kneeling in surprise.

He was a father. The realization, several days late, only now made its way to his mind. He had been teacher, rival, lover, architect and composer and who-knew-how-many other occupations, and now he had to be a father.

A theme park, a building, an automaton, an opera…his mind ran over all his works. Operas went out of style, buildings collapsed, machines stopped working…but a child. A child was the one permanent creation that could go on. A child was a living, thinking, feeling part of himself.

He had never asked for this. But like it or not, he had a son to care for.

He squeezed his eyes shut. He was no father. He had not even known the boy existed until a few days ago. He had neglected the first ten years of his life. Christine had been right; the Vicomte was the boy's true father.

But now he had to be one.

He left his room for Gustave's, opening the door slowly. The boy, he saw with some relief, was asleep, the book of fairy tales on the bed, the covers bunched up on one side. Carefully, Erik rearranged them, covering Gustave right and setting the book on the side table. Unable to resist, he let his fingers drift over the boy's face, touching the blonde hair and unmarred face so different from his own. Gustave stirred, making Erik jerk back in sudden fear, but did not wake.

Sighing once more, not knowing what to do with the turmoil within him, Erik exited the room.


	16. Chapter 16

Thanks everybody for the reviews! And now we've gone officially into 'sequel' territory! Erm, the sequel to a sequel. Yes.

Also, I indulged in a bit of melodrama and whatnot in this chapter. Funny, that, since I put such huge emphasis on realism and simplicity in my profile.

And I would just like to say that a lot of this chapter was inspired by Eriksangelofmusic4ever's story 'My Father the Phantom', which was the only _Love Never Dies_ FanFiction I read for a while. I tried to make things different, I really did. If I've failed horrendously, send me your plagiarism flames and I'll go and change stuff around.

Chapter 16

Gustave awoke the next morning to find Erik sitting at his bedside.

"Good morning," said Erik, though he sounded – and looked – awkward. And clearly knew it.

Gustave blinked, wondering if he was dreaming. "Good morning."

Erik sighed unhappily. "I have not been a good father."

"You've-"

Erik held up a hand. "Do not try." He stood, tossing his son some clothing. "Put these on, then join me outside."

Gustave obeyed. His father was outside.

Erik asked, "Is there…anything you would like to do today?"

Gustave thought on that for a moment. "Could I – go outside?"

Erik managed to hide a flinch. "Outside? Where? What for?" He moved to the bookshelf. "I thought you wanted me to teach you something." He was much better at being a teacher than a father.

Gustave stepped back slightly, frightened he had angered his father again. "It doesn't matter."

Erik sighed, kneeling down by his son. "Gustave, I will do whatever you wish. If you wish to go outside, we will."

Gustave perked up a little. "You never finished teaching me how to swim."

Erik laughed, and this time it lasted longer. "Very well. To the beach, then?"

Gustave nodded, and took Erik's hand on impulse. Erik stared down at him for a moment, then shook himself and seemed to accept it. As they descended the stairs, though, Gustave felt his father squeeze his hand, just a little.

Gustave thought they would go to the same tract of beach they had gone before, and Erik had even been headed in that direction. He had just caught a glimpse of the sandy stretch when Erik abruptly turned around and dragged him to another part. Gustave understood the reason at a gut level: it was one of the few happy moments he had spent with his mother and then-unknown father.

They reached another part of the Coney Island beach, though it was just as empty as the last. There, Gustave tried to convince his father into taking off the mask. After all, if he was going swimming, wouldn't it float away in the water?

"You are not afraid of seeing this?" sneered Erik, pulling the white leather piece off. "Perhaps you'll mistake me for a sea monster coming to drown you."

Gustave wasn't sure if that was a joke, but had replied, "I'm not scared." And he wasn't. It was as his mother once said. It was not Erik's face that was frightening, but his temper, his possessiveness, and his murderous desperation when he was cornered.

"Very well." Erik waded into deeper water than before, beckoning the boy. "You will have to learn how to tread water, and you can only do that in deeper areas."

"Deeper?" squeaked Gustave; the water was already waist-high.

"Yes, deep enough that you can't touch the bottom." Erik was much taller than him, enough that water that might go up to Gustave's neck was still no problem for him. "Come along."

"But – but-"

"Come on, boy!"

Erik was definitely showing impatience, and not wanting to disappoint, Gustave ventured to his side. He yelped as his feet left the bottom, until he felt Erik's reassuring grip on his shoulders.

"I have you now." Erik moved his hands under Gustave's arms. "You have to move your arms and legs a certain way. Move your legs in circles…" He checked. "No, vertical circles…good. And your arms are the opposite – horizontal circles….good." He released Gustave.

"Wait! I'm not ready!"

"You have to do it alone sometime!" Evidently, 'sometime' was right now.

Gustave felt panic trickle down his spine; he started to thrash about, his movements becoming more erratic, and then he started to sink –

Erik grabbed him by the collar and pulled him back up, spluttering water.

"Foolish boy! Do not panic, or you'll drown!"

Gustave choked up some more of the salty sea water, crying and trying not to show it. He hated water, he hated swimming, and he was absolutely frightened of drowning.

"Why did you let go?" he cried.

"I told you – you have to face some fears alone!"

Gustave protested, "What about you? Did you ever do that?"

Erik looked down at him. "Yes. All the time. And they were more frightening than mere sea water." He slapped a wave across the water contemptuously.

Gustave was silent, concentrating on getting his movements right. After a moment, he said meekly, "I'm ready to try it alone now."

Erik glanced down. "Very well." In an attempt to make amends, he said, "I will catch you if you get into trouble, Gustave. I won't let anything happen to you."

Gustave nodded. He felt Erik let go. The rest of the time was a fight between treading water and keeping panic from overtake him again. He kept bobbing up and down on the surface, sending him into terror when he went too low and relief when he came back up. Gradually he learned that this was how it was on the water.

"You look as if you've learned it well," commented Erik at his side. Gustave looked over and nodded, unable to keep a grin off his face. It must have been infectious, for Erik smiled as well.

"Would you like to try floating?" he asked. Gustave nodded, and let his father maneuver him onto his back. "You have to inflate your chest a bit. A little more. Good. Spread out your arms. There, you see? Keep this position. If you ever get tired of treading water, you can do this to rest."

Gustave rolled over and went back to treading water. He was having some more fun now; floating was far easier than treading water. "Is that all?" he asked.

"That's all for today." Erik waded back to shallower water.

Gustave looked about, feeling his confidence grow. If he stretched out his legs, he could actually touch the sea bottom with his toes. His father had not actually taken him into such deep water. That brought a measure of comfort to him. Despite what Erik had said about facing his fears, he had not actually put him in any danger at all.

"Can I go deeper?"

Erik cast back a look from where he was near the shore. "Very well," he agreed. "But not too far. And not for too long."

"I won't," said Gustave, already going further into the sea. He could feel the sea bottom trailing away, but it was still shallow enough that if he really stretched, he could feel it. It was reassuring.

He ventured in even farther, feeling the shoreline dip a little further down. Still, if he looked back he could see the shoreline, and his father waving at him.

He waved back, scooted deeper in, and felt a shock as the entire bottom simply disappeared. Unprepared, and still relying on that floor, he slipped, shooting into shockingly cold water, water that was as dark and frightening as his worst nightmares –

Gustave screamed, a stream of bubbles the only indication, however, that he had done anything. And it was a mistake as he felt his already-unprepared lungs lose whatever air they had. Flailing, he only managed to turn himself around, and then was completely lost in that murky water…

A hand plunged down and grabbed at him, taking hold of his shirt. Suddenly he was being dragged – was it down? – he didn't know, and he struggled – then his head broke the surface of the water and he saw the sky, and was dazed, thinking for one incredible second that he had sunk to the bottom of the sea and reached air there –

"What were you thinking?"

That was Erik, shouting into his ear and looking soaked to the bone. The deformed man would have looked absolutely terrifying to anyone except for Gustave, who clung to him for dear life as the two swam back to shore.

"Well?" Erik continued to yell when he had deposited his son on land. "I told you not to go too deep! Did you not hear me calling for you? Did you not see me?"

Gustave's only response was to cough up some water, but Erik seemed to take it as an impertinent answer.

"You could have been lost! You could have drowned! No – you would have drowned, if I had not gone in to rescue you!" Erik's rant was growing ever louder, and he had stood and was actually pacing the length of land. "Next time, you will obey me! But that will not be for a while, because we are not doing anything like this for a long time, do you hear me, Gustave?"

And here he shook his son by the collar. Gustave rolled over and vomited up sea water. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Erik leap back, then move out of his peripheral vision. For a dreadful moment he thought the man had abandoned him; then he felt Erik's hands holding him steady, and felt better.

When it was over, Gustave leaned back against his father, who initially tried to shift away but settled for allowing it. He even patted the boy a bit, and asked if he was all right. When he thought Gustave had rested enough, though, he hauled him back up and led him back home.

* * *

They had dinner in a tension-filled atmosphere, Erik reflecting in morose silence. Was this what it felt like to be a parent – moments of happiness mixed in with sudden, consuming fear? That was all he could remember of the time in the sea – a sense of accomplishment, that he had managed to get through to his son, followed by terror when he saw Gustave's blonde head bob once, then sink below the waves. And finally, anger, that this utterly idiotic boy had nearly killed himself over something so simple as staying close to shallow water…

Perhaps Gustave sensed something of his feelings. "Erik?"

"What?"

The boy visibly flinched. "I'm sorry I went into deep water." He swirled his food around his fork.

"It's all right."

"I'm sorry you had to swim after me, too."

"Gustave, I said it was fine."

"I'm sorry if I threw up all over you."

"Gustave!" Erik slammed down his fork, hating that his son kept on reminding him of his own fears, hating the fright in Gustave's eyes, and most of all, hating himself for causing it. "Enough! I said you were forgiven! Now eat your dinner!"

Gustave went silent.

"You are not eating," Erik said abruptly a few moments later.

Gustave quickly pushed in a few scraps, mumbling, "Yes I am."

Erik stood, his chair falling over behind him. "Do you not want that food?"

Gustave was too scared to answer, not that it would have mattered.

"Have you been spoiled by your time as a little Vicomte?" snarled Erik, drawing closer. Gustave scooted off his chair too slowly; Erik was already upon him, his hands balled into fists. Gustave muffled a cry as Erik's hand lashed out at him, but at the last moment it snatched instead at the plate of food – a substitute, some part of Gustave's mind said dimly – and hurled it at the wall. It shattered, scattering food and sharp ceramic pieces over the floor.

"Then don't eat!" Erik roared, pacing away. "Starve then, for all I care!" He paced away, hands tearing at his hair, shoving aside the table in disgust.

Gustave could not understand his father's mood swings. Surely refusing some food could not cause this kind of reaction. His mother and father – Raoul – had never reacted this way. They had scolded and sometimes yelled, but they had never screamed outright at him. They had not hurled plates at walls.

He bent down, scooping at the pieces. Napkin in hand, he gathered up the food, then carefully picked up each ceramic piece.

He heard footsteps and looked up, and there was Erik, shooing him away. "I'll clean it up," said Erik. "Go to your room."

Gustave shook his head. "No, I can do it…look, I'm almost finished."

Erik sighed. "Go to your room, Gustave." His tone implied that nobody had ever disobeyed him. Gustave chose to ignore this.

"It's my fault, I should clean it up," he said stubbornly.

Erik raised disbelieving eyes to him. "Your fault? I threw it. Move aside-"

Gustave could not think of any good reason why he wasn't moving, but he stood his ground and said "No, I can-"

"Gustave, move!"

"But I'm almost – ouch!"

Gustave snapped back at the sudden shock of pain. He had barely taken a good look at his injury when Erik had snatched his hand and was staring at it.

"You cut yourself," Erik said. He seemed almost surprised by the injury.

"Ow!" Gustave pulled back. Blood welled up from a long slash down his index finger. He made to put his finger in his mouth and had his hand promptly grabbed back.

"That will not help," snarled Erik. He dragged the boy to his feet and into the bathroom. "Come on. Come on!" He pulled harder. "Let me put a bandage on it."

Gustave watched as his father deftly unrolled a white gauze strip and wrapped it around his finger. It felt a little too tight, but he didn't dare voice a complaint. It didn't help his father's mood when the white bandage started to turn red as the blood soaked into it.

"Wonderful," muttered Erik. He placed another strip over it. "First you nearly drown, then you slice yourself open on a piece of – what? Some dishes!"

Gustave stared at the ground.

"And do you know what the worst part of it is?" asked Erik, mostly to himself. "It could have been avoided." He jerked Gustave's face up. "You should have listened to me! Are you even listening to me now?"

"Yes!" Gustave exclaimed. Erik released him.

"Next time, try and show some consideration for your own life!" he shouted. He jerked away, slamming the marble counters with his palms, the sound reverberating off the walls. "Do not make others come running after you!"

"I'm sorry…" whispered the boy.

"Never mind that," growled Erik, waving the boy away. "Go to your room. I need to be alone."

The boy had been hoping for just such an exit, and was in his own bedroom before he had finished his last sentence. Yet as soon as he was out of sight, the anger seemed to drain from Erik, replaced only by dull melancholy. He closed his eyes, leaning against the wall. But that only allowed his mind's eye to fill with the terror of the entire day – of not only seeing his son almost drown, but of the pure terror that had run through him when he saw him bleeding. He was accustomed to blood, both his own and that of others (often shed by his own hands), but to see it from Gustave brought emotions he had never felt before.

This cannot be the way to parent, he thought. Fathers and mothers would know what to do…

He groaned inwardly, thinking of his own mother. Certainly she was of no help for parenting. He smirked; if he just did the opposite of everything she had done, he would be well on his way to becoming an excellent father. But, he thought, the smile fading, being a father was more than not neglecting the child.

And now he forced himself to think of Christine. She had been patient, kind, a teacher and a friend and a source of comfort to the boy. And the same must be true of the damn Vicomte. How could he replace all that?

He hated this feeling. He hated being helpless. And that was all Gustave seemed to inspire in him.

The raging emotions swirled, became too much for him; without warning he turned and smashed the bottles and decorations from the bathroom counters. That did not appease the all-consuming anger and grief and guilt that was building up within him; it only fueled it. In a mindless haze he entered his own bedroom and ripped his drawings from the walls, destroyed the tools on his desk, and ripped apart his bed. But nothing could quench it, and he was soon in the main room, wrecking the automatons he had spent ten years working on, shattering whatever he could get his hands on, ruining every magnificent thing he had built… Only a tiny rational part of his mind kept him from entering Gustave's room. It did not go far enough to realize the consequences of such destruction, on himself or on the boy.

And when it was over, he collapsed against the wall and sobbed as brutal images overwhelmed him, all of Christine. He saw her resigned face as she kissed him, a growing awareness of her own feelings…he saw her in bed, her bare shoulders just peeking out of his covers…he saw the fateful letter to her, her terror at seeing him, her exquisite performance on stage…and finally, with terrible clarity, he saw her bleeding her life out on the floor, whispering to him to take care of her son…

Christine…

She was gone. She was gone because of him. Because the coldly logical part of his mind knew that if he had not called her to him…if he had not tried once more to seduce her…if he had not stupidly faced the Vicomte… she would still be alive. Safe, with a son and husband who deserved her…

But she had died, and left him with a son. A son he could not take care of.

He stood, staring down at the wreckage. Like one of his mechanical humans he stumbled to a table, opened a drawer. Scrounging through the papers, he touched metal and drew out a small pistol. He held out, watching the lights reflect off the surface. Very slowly, he placed the gun underneath his chin.

And he couldn't live without her. He had barely survived the first night after he had forced himself to leave her. Then he had thrown himself into work. But even then there had been the knowledge that she was somewhere in the world, that if he wanted to he could travel back to Paris and gaze upon her again…

He could not try and live without her again.

He sank to the ground, eyes closed, and waited…for a twitch of the finger on the trigger…an involuntary jerk of his hand…

He felt only someone's eyes upon him, before he opened his own and saw Gustave standing a few feet in front of him, staring at the gun.

"Erik?"

Erik lowered the gun.

"Are you – are you all right?" Gustave asked lamely.

Erik let the gun drop. "Gustave…" There was a lump in his throat that he tried to clear himself of. "I – I am fine." He stood unsteadily. "You – you should be in bed."

Gustave's eyes followed the gun, then flicked back up to his father.

"What about you?"

Erik kept his own eyes from going to the gun. "I will sleep as well." He reached for the boy, paused, and backed away. "Go to bed, now."

Gustave wanted to say so many things – wanted to say that he felt sad, too, that he missed his mother terribly, that he missed Raoul and his old home and his old life – that at the same time he wanted to be with Erik, that he was frightened to death of losing his real father, too –

But he only said, "All right. Good night…Erik."

When Gustave was gone, Erik collected the gun and retreated to the piano, thoughts spinning wildly in his head.

He was not a father; he could never be a father. The boy was frightened of him. How could he take care of a boy, with a face as hideous as the one he bore, with a temperament of only barely restrained rage, with a mind about to shatter from grief and guilt? How could he, when everything he did only drove the boy further away from him?

How could he love him, when he had only ever loved one person? And she was gone, ripping away all of his heart with her – he could not bear to love the boy if it meant losing him, too. And what 'love' it had been – an obsession, a murderous obsession…Christine had gone fleeing into the Vicomte's arms because of that…so what would happen if Gustave should ever witness this side of him? What if Gustave had come a few moments too late…had seen...

It would be the end of the boy's sanity, of his innocence, of any childhood he ever had.

He had already known what to do, in his heart. It had just taken a while for his mind to realize it.

Unbidden came the image of that letter. He smiled bitterly to himself as he found a piece of paper – torn from a larger sheet, but still useable – and started to scrawl on it.

When it was over, he thought blindly to himself, when the boy was safely back with his real father…then his worthless life would be over. Fleck and Gangle and Squelch could take care of Phantasma. He smiled sadly; they deserved some recognition for their work. They were the most reliable people he had, the closest to friendship he had ever come. Or he would will the park to Gustave. But should he? Better to leave no more memories of his presence…better to be wiped out, like a bad dream soon forgotten…

His hand and fingers were pressed against the paper so hard they had gone white. He finished off the letter, leaving it on the piano. His head ached; there were small cuts and scratches from his reckless destruction of his home. Erik shook his head. It would not matter in a few weeks.

He stumbled back to his ruined bed and sank into it.

_Christine…_

* * *

Gustave could not sleep. He had heard the sounds outside and had curled underneath his covers, knowing instinctively what his father was doing, and that he could not go outside. This was like when Erik had been in his dead state, only worse. He had known then, somehow, that if he were to go outside, his father would not recognize him. A particularly loud crash had shattered the air soon after the thought. Then all was silence. Gustave had waited fearfully for another noise, or worse, for his father to enter his room and – do what? He had not known.

He had rolled over, crying to himself. It was his fault, wasn't it? He knew it was. He had been disobedient and he had made his father angry, angry enough that he was destroying his entire house. And Gustave had wanted to tell him he was sorry and he would never disobey again, but Erik had not listened.

When it was quiet, Gustave had left his bed and crawled to the door, opening it just a crack. There seemed only silence. Then he had ventured outside and seen…

Erik. All alone, looking like death.

Gustave threw his covers aside and left his warm bed once more. His father…he could not lose his father, too. He had lost his mother; he could not lose Erik, too.

When he arrived at Erik's bedroom, he heard sobbing. It was so painful, so personal, that Gustave felt he was intruding, and he shut the door. But he stayed near the door, and a while after it ended, he heard his father moving to his own room.

He opened the door. It was completely dark outside; without any windows and with the light off, there was virtually no illumination. But the space was so open, and Gustave had memorized the home so well, that he made his way to Erik's room without too much difficulty.

He pushed open the door – his father had forgotten to lock it – and stood by the bed. Erik rolled over suddenly, sensing his presence.

"What are you doing here?" he said hoarsely.

Gustave pulled himself onto the bed; Erik instinctively moved back, sitting up guardedly. Gustave said, "I'm sorry for making you angry."

He heard Erik sigh, saw his dark shape shift. "I told you it was all right. Go back to your own room."

Gustave bounced up and down on the bed. For some reason the sheets were missing. "You didn't kiss me goodnight," he said at last.

"Another night, Gustave."

"Oh." His father must be very, very angry. He lay down next to him. "Can I sleep next to you?"

Erik sat up so fast he rocked the bed. "What?"

Gustave backed off; this had been a bad idea. "I – never mind! I'm lonely…Mother used to sleep next to me… but I can go back-"

"No!" interrupted Erik loudly. In a softer tone he repeated, "No. You…" Gustave had the distinct feeling of being stared that. A moment passed, then Erik said, "Are you sure?" He turned on a light, showing his deformed face. "Are you sure you would want to sleep next to this?"

Gustave nodded. In a small voice, he said, "I'm not scared of your face." He snuggled in next to his father.

A sigh escaped Erik. "Very well. But…sleep on the other side." He pushed Gustave so that the boy was lying on his right side. When Erik faced him, the deformed side of his face remained hidden in the pillow. Assured of this, Erik turned off the light.

"I'm cold," murmured Gustave.

Another gusty sigh. "Then maybe you ought to sleep in your own room."

Gustave moved closer to Erik. After a moment, Gustave said, "You're warm."

"I am not." It was such a childish answer Gustave had to smother a laugh.

"You are." He curled into his father's body. "Goodnight, Erik."

"Goodnight, Gustave," Erik said.

The boy, tired by the long day, was soon asleep. It would not be so easy for Erik. He was uncomfortable sleeping on one side for so long, particularly with his face digging into the pillow. He was also wary of every movement, from the both of them, fearful that he would wake Gustave, afraid Gustave would open his eyes and see him.

He pulled closer, touching the boy's hair. A son. He wondered what insanity had prompted him to let the boy lie next to him for the night. He had made the decision to rid himself of Gustave; didn't this just make it harder, cement the bond between them?

_I want to enjoy one night with my son_, he said stubbornly to that logical part of his mind.

Gustave wrapped his fingers around his hand. The gesture softened whatever remained of his heart, at least until he crushed that emotional part of him. Enough softness, enough pretending at being a father. In a few weeks – a few days, if he could help it – he would have the boy sent back to France with a man who could be a true father.

Erik tugged his hand free and settled into a restless sleep.

* * *

See? Different outcome!


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

There were no clocks in Erik's home; he had never had any in his underground lair, and had never seen the need for any. His own internal clock was good enough (and sometime, more accurate than an actual clock). Thus when he woke up, he knew instinctively that it was a little after sunrise, early enough for him.

He shifted his arm and found Gustave's head lying on it. That explained the pinpricks running up and down his fingers, he thought ruefully. After some careful maneuvering, he managed to free his arm, flexing his hand to get the feeling back.

This is the only time this will happen, he thought to himself. Today he would get one Fleck or one of the others to send out his letter, on the fastest steamer possible. He also had to call them up to discuss the running of Phantasma. A hollow feeling accompanied these thoughts when his gaze drifted back down to Gustave's sleeping form. This may very well be the last time he would be so close to his son. He visualized an entire life, another decade or two or even three, alone. No Christine, no son…just him and a park. It was torture.

Enough self-pity. He crushed the thoughts to pieces. This was the right thing to do. It could not be more difficult than releasing Christine. He wanted his son to be happy, and that would certainly not come when the boy was near him.

He forced himself to the main room, calling up the three freaks. The letter to the Vicomte remained where it was on the piano lid. He stared at it, feeling a stabbing between his eyes.

It wasn't as bad as letting Christine go.

It was worse.

Gustave understood him, came from him, had made himself a part of his life so quietly that he hadn't even noticed his presence until now.

That was why he had to do this, he snarled to that sentimental part of him. Since when could a Phantom, a deformed murderer, raise a child? The boy would be warped and twisted under his care. And he could not stand that.

A heavy sigh escaped him. A few weeks, at the most, left with Gustave. He had to spend it wisely.

With that thought in mind, he started to clean up the mess in his home.

* * *

Gustave awoke expecting his old room, and was understandably disoriented when he opened his eyes. It took a few seconds for him to remember the events of last night.

Erik was not around, though he had covered Gustave with a blanket (torn and thin, but still a blanket), and had left his clothing on a chair (both also looking rather worse for wear). Gustave dressed himself, washed up in the nearby bathroom (which seemed a lot emptier than he remembered). He had to wash around his bandaged finger, but was glad it had stopped bleeding so much. He then exited the bedroom.

He had forgotten about Erik's destructive rage. The entire room was in shambles, all the decorations torn to pieces on the floor, little mechanical gears the only evidence of the automatons' existence. In a corner was Erik, cleaning up the remains of a vase; as Gustave watched, he dumped the pieces into a blanket, intending, Gustave guessed, to take it out later. He wondered how long Erik had been up, cleaning; the floor, at least, looked pretty bare.

Erik glanced up at him but didn't say or do anything, just continued his work. Gustave moved to the furniture, pushing the chairs and, with some difficulty, the table, upright. There was an enjoyable silence to it all that Gustave liked, as he picked up a spindly end table and balanced it as well as he could when it had half of one leg missing (he eventually left it leaning against the thankfully righted sofa).

"Did you sleep well?" asked Erik abruptly from his place. He was picking up glass shards, being careful not to have a repeat of yesterday's episode.

"Yes."

"You were not…disturbed?" Evidently this question had been on Erik's mind for some time, judging by the intense look he was giving his son.

"No."

It was the truth. Something had changed in that time. Erik was the darkly mysterious Mr. Y and a violent, rampaging man, but he could also be the comforting, loving father that Gustave needed. A determination, formed by his days of captivity and the loss of his mother, overtook Gustave. He finally understood what his mother had been trying to say. It was not just about being loved by Erik; it was about giving love back.

Erik, in the meantime, nodded. "Good." The silence that followed was tense, and he made to break it. "I was…feeling terrible." He motioned around. "It doesn't end well. You can go eat breakfast…

"No." He moved over to where Erik was working, though this time he was careful not to pick up any pieces.

Erik looked up once more. "What do you want?" he asked harshly.

Gustave gave him a hug. He felt Erik stiffen.

"What are you doing?" he snarled, pushing the boy off.

Maybe it had been a bad time. Erik had been cleaning up. "I'm hugging you," Gustave answered. "Because…to thank you for letting me sleep next to me." He twisted his shirt unconsciously. "It's scary without my mother at night."

He was staring at the floor, so all he could see was Erik's legs. But he did see them shift, and a second later, felt his hand on his head.

"I miss her too," said Erik in a low voice. He removed his hand. "It will get better, Gustave." It was said in a whisper. "I promise…things will get better."

Gustave nodded, wiping away some stray tears, and managed a watery smile. Erik really wanted to try to be a good father, and it reassured him.

"Can I clean up some more?" he asked. Noticing the look on Erik's face, he added hastily, "I promise I won't touch anything sharp. And I'll be fast, too!"

Erik waved a hand in defeat. "You may. But over there, with the less dangerous objects…stay away from here." He dropped back to his own work.

Gustave walked around the room, picking up the scattered remnants of the automatons, trying to be careful about his injured finger. It would still twinge when he moved it too much. For one of the things he cleaned up he was fairly sure had been the skeleton butler: the pieces he recognized were in the shape of bones. He finished gathering that up and went to the piano, righting the seat.

There were scattered papers and music sheets all around, which he also scooped up. He riffled through them quickly to make sure none were important. Most were indecipherable scrawling he assumed were by his father, in languages he could not comprehend. One he kept: his old composition. Looking down at it, he understood what his father had said about darkness and light in music. The melodies he had written were for another time, for another boy, not one who had watched his mother die and his world change so suddenly.

"Gustave?" Erik had seen what he was doing and was coming over quickly. "Get away from there. Go pick up something else."

"I will." He placed the papers back down, then caught a familiar line.

_…de Chagny…_

Frowning, he picked it up, not noticing Erik freezing at his place.

_To the Vicomte de Chagny, regarding your son…_

The words took a while to reach his mind – first, that it was Raoul whom Erik was writing, Raoul who was gradually fading from his mind as his father. Reading 'your son' made him vaguely puzzled – did Raoul have another son he was unaware of? – then he realized it was referring to himself.

But I'm Erik's son, aren't I? He skimmed through the rest of the letter disbelievingly, then went back and read it all over again. He could not be reading right…

He read it again, and again, and though the words pounded inside his mind he could not understand. Because it essentially stated that he, Gustave, was too much to handle, that he had to go back to Raoul, that it was going to happen in a few weeks…a few days, if need be…

Gustave let his hand drop, his fingers just barely clutching the letter. He stared at Erik, standing across the room from him and miles away in his head.

"You…want me to go back?" he whispered.

Erik broke free of his trance. He came over and tried to snatch the letter back, but Gustave stumbled back, evading him.

"You want me to leave?" asked Gustave, voice high.

Erik gritted his teeth and turned away. "I cannot take care of you," he managed to say. "It is better this way."

"But you're my father!" Gustave howled. "I should stay with you! My mother said to stay with you!"

"Your mother was wrong!" roared Erik, slamming his fists into the piano so hard it made the keys bounce and play a shrieking chord. "I cannot – I will not – take care of you any longer!"

He strode towards the boy and stole back the letter, slapping it on to the top of the piano.

"You will go back to France, where you belong, to the Vicomte, do you understand me?" he shouted.

Gustave cried out tearfully, "I'm sorry for swimming too far! I'm sorry for…for disobeying! I promise-"

Something flicked in Erik's eyes – it might have been pain, but Gustave did not see it. It was gone in a flash, Erik seizing upon this opportunity. "Your 'sorry's and promises do nothing for me, Gustave! You will go back where you belong!"

"But I want to stay!"

"Well, I don't want you to stay; have you ever thought of that, you stupid boy?"

The hateful words seemed to ring in the silence that followed. Erik was panting slightly, sweat running down the unmasked portion of his face.

Gustave took another halting step back. "But…"

Erik interrupted harshly, "You are going back. You will not stay here."

The boy glared at him, the situation finally becoming clear. "Why should I? You don't even want me around. Are you even my father?" He spat the last words.

Erik turned away. His next words were said in a softer tone. "The Vicomte is your real father. I am not your father, not in any sense that matters."

They were meant to be consoling; they had little effect on Gustave, who only heard Erik pushing him further away. "Fine. I'll go back." Gustave stared at the ground, hurt inside and thinking only to hurt back. "I wish you weren't my father," he snapped.

Erik wheeled around. "And I wish you weren't my son."

"You're evil!" Gustave shouted. "You're evil and ugly and horrible! I wish Raoul had shot you instead of my mother!"

Pure rage on Erik's face. "Do you think I don't wish that myself!" He was at Gustave in a second. "Do you think I wished I hadn't died instead?"

"You should have died!" screamed Gustave. "I wish you were dead! Then you could be with my mother!"

"And be rid of you, do not forget that!" Erik seized Gustave's arm so hard it left marks on Gustave's arm. He shouted, "I wanted your mother, not you!"

Erik had not meant to say that. He had never wanted to say that. But it was too late. The damage had been done.

Gustave moved back, out of Erik's suddenly slack grip. "I hate you," he mumbled.

Erik dropped his arm.

Gustave turned and ran out the door. He leaped down the flight of stairs and out of the tower, into the noise and smoke of Phantasma.

* * *

Melodrama - a type of theater, film, and television that focuses on heightening the emotions of the audience; done by amping up the perceived scale and emotional response on everything.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

Gustave ran with no notion of where he was going. As soon as the Aerie was behind him, he knew he had made a mistake. But he was too angry, too betrayed, to go back. He hated his father, he hated Erik or Mr. Y or whatever his name was, and he never wanted to see the man again.

He stumbled into the crowd of people and gasped when a woman knocked him to the ground. His hands scraped against the dirt, sending pebbles up, but nobody stopped to help him up. Palms stinging, Gustave wiped them off on his pants and tried to get his bearings.

He had been to Phantasma twice, with his mother and – he couldn't think on that, because all it did was raise doubts in his mind that a child should not have to think about: the death of his mother, his feelings towards Raoul, who he thought had been his father, his feelings towards Erik, his real father…who did not want him…

He was an orphan, then. The truth hit him in the gut, painfully. His mother was dead. Raoul was gone. Erik had disowned him. Tears welled up in his eyes, and he started to cry right there in the middle of the park, bending down and holding his body. The rush of crowds was so intense, the sights so spectacular, that nobody noticed the little boy sobbing in the midst of the noise.

When he had no more tears to shed – and he so little, it seemed, for he had spent so much time weeping over his mother – he crawled between the wooden slats of a rollercoaster and curled up there, his body wrung out from the emotion. For many moments, Gustave remained in that position, not sleeping but not thinking either, numb to the outside world. The beams would often shake as the ride sped over the tracks, a loud roaring filling the tiny area, but Gustave remained blind and deaf to it all.

An hour, perhaps more, passed in this manner. Gustave remained under the ride.

* * *

"Master?"

The three freaks – Fleck in her unusual black dress, face heavily caked with makeup; Squelch in his thick jacket; Gangle, long limbs befitting his name – peeked into the room.

Fleck bowed low to where Erik was sitting on the sofa, carefully ignoring the obvious signs of a man who had recently gone on a destructive rampage. "You called for us, Master?"

Erik was silent. He seemed lost in thought, nestling his left cheek in his hand.

After some moments of silence, Squelch said in his heavy voice, "Did you have something to ask of us, Master?"

Erik blinked, gazed at them. Fleck stepped back involuntarily, hand clutching Dr. Gangle's arm. The Master looked dead, emotionally, mentally. There was none of that ceaseless spark and energy left in him. She had known that the death of Miss Daaé would have affected him, but she had hoped he would find meaning in the boy. It looked as if she had been wrong.

"Master?" asked Dr. Gangle.

Erik stood up, very slowly, as if trying to be careful. He turned glazed eyes to them and said, "Gustave is missing."

Fleck shot looks to the two men behind her; they caught it and nodded, understanding.

"You wish us to look for him?" she asked, her sharp eyes now searching all over the room. A sudden wink of light caught her attention. She stepped back slightly, letting Squelch and Gangle move forward.

Erik seemed not to hear her. "I want you to find him. Search all over Phantasma." He sank back down to the sofa, hiding his face, mask and all, in his hands. Fleck took advantage of this to move ever closer to the light. Erik continued, "Search Coney Island. Check the…the ports. The ships."

They nodded, not that their master could see. Fleck had reached the piano and beheld the source of light – the gun, with the light from the room reflecting off its shiny surface.

Squelch asked quietly, "If we find him, should we bring him back?"

Fleck picked up and pocketed the gun.

A long silence followed. At last, Erik said, "No. Tell me, but…leave him be. I…I need to handle this." He lifted a hand and dismissed them; the movement was so slow it was as if he were moving through sludge. "Go. Find him."

The three freaks bowed slightly and turned around, Fleck trailing behind. Squelch and Gangle were already at the door when she heard her master say,

"Fleck."

She paused, back to him, pulling the gun in front of her so that her body blocked it.

Erik said, "Return what you took."

She swallowed down her fear. "I – I took nothing."

Fleck did not hear him move, but suddenly he was behind, turning her around to face him and with no time for her to attempt to hide the gun.

He took it from her and set it back on the piano. "Go find Gustave," he said gently.

Her eyes went to the gun.

"I assure you, I will not…" He paused, not finishing the sentence. "Go find my son."

She turned away from his haunted face. At the door she looked back once more, swallowed, then went down the steps to Phantasma.

* * *

Gustave lifted himself from the dirt at the time when the park was emptiest – late afternoon, as the sun began to set. The families who came during the day were making their way home to supper; the people who liked to come at night had not yet arrived.

He wiped at his face and looked about. The crowds had certainly lessened. It felt safe enough for him to get out, though exactly what he was escaping from, he didn't care to consider. His mother's precautions against walking alone or in the dark were, for now, forgotten, pushed to another part of his mind.

Phantasma was a confusing place, and Gustave spent many moments walking around, sometimes passing by old landmarks, often going in circles. To top it off, he didn't even know where he was going. The only thing he really knew was that he did not want to go back to Erik. And for that, his mind rationalized, he had to get as far away from the Aerie as possible.

That was how he found himself near the entrance, exhausted physically and emotionally. By then, night had fallen over the park, and the crowds were once again thickening. A cold wind brushed at him, and Gustave shivered; he was wearing only a light shirt and pants, with no sweater, no coat.

He looked outside and shuddered again. While Phantasma was absolutely illuminating, outside was dark, frightening. The night seemed to swallow up the light, and Phantasma looked warm and safe in comparison.

Maybe he would leave in the morning.

But that left him with having to find a place to stay. And food to eat. Gustave felt a low rumble in his stomach and realized that he had not eaten at all today. He dug around in his pockets for money, already knowing he had none by hoping he might find a coin regardless. As his pockets turned up empty, he kept thinking of Erik's magic tricks…of how he had made money appear from out of thin air…

It was a trick, he thought fiercely to himself. A magic trick. You can't make money, or food, or anything, appear from thin air. Still shivering in the night air, Gustave hunched his body in and wandered back into Phantasma. Instinctively he headed for the tents; their large tent-like interiors, gaudy decorations, and incredible noise spoke of warmth and comfort.

He entered through the main entrance, shoved about by the crowds also coming in. On the stage was the girl he had seen his first day in Phantasma, prancing and singing about. He did not stay for long, choosing to wander into the backstage area. It was so crowded with performers, all of them running about in huge gaudy costumes, that Gustave went entirely unnoticed. Perhaps they thought he was a dwarf.

He crept into the darkest corner of the tent, stomach now growling in hunger. He had seen stands and tables selling food of all kinds, their mouthwatering scents filling the air, but he did not even think of stealing. Stealing was wrong; he had been taught as much from a very young age. But his protesting stomach was a good argument against such morals.

He lay down in the corner, curling himself up. The light and the cloth of the tent insulated the interior, retaining heat pretty nicely, but Gustave found himself wishing for a blanket, if only to hide himself. He felt exposed and open, and the thought kept him from falling into sleep. And that made him focus on his stomach. The noise outside, of the performances and the cheering audiences, did not help.

He rolled over onto his back, staring at the swaying 'ceiling' of the tent. What could he do? He was hungry and tired and without a home. He had no money, he had no one to look after him. And he was only ten years old. He had heard of, but never seen, the children of the poor, the orphans, those who went to workhouses or who fell into criminal gangs. Gustave was a child of the nobility, raised in ease and comfort, and it caused a terrible dread in him to think that he might become one of those.

But what could he do? Could he somehow get a job? Perhaps out of pity? Who would hire a ten year old boy? And what would he be forced to do? He couldn't do anything but play music. Well, perhaps he could – but then he knew that would attract Erik's attention, and he never, ever wanted to see the masked man again.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to sleep despite the clamor nearby. Or he could go back to Erik – be shipped back to France like some parcel. No. His mind rejected that thought. Not only would Erik not take him back, but he did not want to go begging back to the man who had outright rejected him.

Maybe he could do Erik's idea for him. He could sneak onboard a ship back to France and make his way to Paris. Then he would be back with Raoul, just as Erik wanted.

But a tiny bit of his mind did not want to go back to Raoul; it knew that his home was with Erik.

He shook his head in the dirt, opening his eyes again as his limited prospects circled his mind. He remained like that, unable to sleep, contemplating a future he had never dreamed might happen to him.

* * *

They had searched the entire park carefully, checking the rides, the stands, the tents. The boy had not been there, or was hidden in a place they did not know of. As the sun fell, they wandered back from their places in the city. That had been difficult for them to do. Phantasma was their home, was the only place where they had friends, where the stares they received were friendly or wondering. Outside, it was different.

Fleck met Squelch and Dr. Gangle at the entrance to the park.

"I checked the Pier, the Boardwalk, and the beaches," said Squelch in his deep voice. "He was not there. None had seen him around the area."

Dr. Gangle nodded. "It was the same for me," he said, reedy voice contrasting with Squelch's. "The hotel he was staying at with his mother and the Vicomte had no reports. Neither did the other hotels, or the concert hall. The streets were too crowded for me to see him."

Fleck sighed. "Not in Steeplechase Park, not in Phantasma. We don't know where he is."

"We will have to report this to the Master anyway," admonished Dr. Gangle.

She nodded. Already they were making their way to the Aerie.

When they were allowed entrance the Master's main room, Fleck wondered if her Master had eaten or rested or worked at all. He was still in the same spot she had last seen him at.

He raised his masked face when she, Squelch, and Dr. Gangle entered.

"Did you find him?" he asked hoarsely.

They shook their heads.

He stared at the wall. "It's night," he whispered.

"We will continue our search," said Dr. Gangle, sensing his master's feelings. "We can alert the rest of the performers as well, put up signs…"

Erik nodded. "Yes. Do that."

They left him in silence. Fleck knew that, until they found the boy, the park was in their hands, as it had been for the last week or so. And this scared them. It was Erik who made the big decisions, who could weigh the benefits and risks of each action he took, who pushed for new innovations and who controlled most of Coney Island. They could not.

"We will have everyone searching," mused Dr. Gangle. "We cannot alert the boy that he is being searched for, though. I do not think he wants to be found." He, like the two others, had figured this much out. The grief of their Master was too great for them to assume that he had thrown the boy out or some other such explanation. And though all three were curious, they also kept their questions to themselves.

"Shall we search more?" asked Squelch.

Fleck nodded. "All night, if we must."

* * *

Padding (_noun_) - filler material; entries that are unrelated to the main plot, don't significantly alter the relations between the characters, and generally serve only to take up space.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Once, Christine and Raoul had taken their son out to a park in Paris. While his parents talked, Gustave had skipped on ahead. Before he knew it, he was lost. He had run frantically up and down the pathways, his heart thudding with and a terrible, gnawing fear growing in his stomach – fear of losing his parents, fear of being on his own – before he had crashed into them, as frantic as he when they realized he had gone missing.

That was how he felt now. Only this time it was worse, for he had deliberately done this to himself, and he had no one to look for, and no one looking for him.

By the time Gustave had woken up the next morning, the growling in his stomach had settled into a dull pain. It would not stay that way for long, but then, at least, it helped him to get up on his feet and leave the tent before he could be found.

He had been late in sleeping: the performances had gone on all night, it seemed. But at some point he had fallen sleep, lulled most likely by the pounding of the audiences' feet on the floor. Spending a night on a dirt floor, however, had left him grubby and smelly. He wished he could go back to the beach where he had learned to spend. Smelling of sea water must be better than this.

By the time he had left the tent, though, his hunger was so great it had drive out any thoughts of hygiene. His need for food warred with his childhood lessons, not helped by the smells wafting through the air. It was still late in the morning; the food carts and stands were going full blast, serving meals to customers by the dozen. The crowds were huge, packing the picnic tables and chairs in the designated dining area.

It was wandering through this area that Gustave found the leftovers – small chunks of fried potatoes, uneaten hot dogs and hamburgers, unfinished drinks, and more. It could not be bad to eat that, could it? It would be wasted anyway. His mother had always told him not to waste food (Raoul, raised in a luxurious household, had not been so strict).

He glanced around once, twice; he caught sight of someone staring at him and realized that such actions might actually look more suspicious. Trying to look as if he belonged there, and quelling the guilt at stealing, he snatched off the fry and ate it.

The saltiness burst in his mouth, not quenching but inflaming his hunger. Without thinking he grabbed the remains of a chicken leg and gobbled it down. The taste was too much, and he drank down the lemonade left behind in a few seconds.

The dining area was full of treats like these, and soon he had satisfied his hunger. Now he could sit down (which he did, in his old place under the rollercoaster) and think on what to do next.

Now that his head was clear, he could only see three options: go to France, and Raoul; go back to Erik; or live the rest of his life in Phantasma and Coney Island, constantly hiding. The last he was in the midst of fulfilling, and it was a horror. He had no money, he had to steal to survive, and he was constantly afraid. He could not board a ship either, and he did not even think of stowing away. But going back to Erik was unthinkable.

He wanted his mother back. He wanted his old life back. He wanted someone to guide him and hold his hand again. He did not want this.

Gustave wandered Phantasma in circles, watching the happy families on the rides or in the tents, envying their life. Once he had a mother and father. Now that was gone.

It was late afternoon when his stomach started to clamor for food; a few leftover were not enough to satisfy him for long. This time he felt less guilt about snatching some food from a table. He just didn't want to feel the ache of starvation again.

This time, though, he was not so lucky.

As he reached out for a piece of fruit his hand was jerked to one side and held in a claw-like grip. Gustave gasped and found himself staring at a regal matron, looking down at him as if he were a fly crawling over her food.

"That is not yours, young man," said the woman. "Release it."

Gustave gulped and did as he was told.

"Now, tell me who your parents are so I can return you to them."

Gustave felt nervousness clawing at his throat. He shook his head frantically, trying to get free.

"No? Then you are an orphan? Or even a criminal?" She arched one thin eyebrow. When Gustave remained silent, she said, "Then perhaps I ought to report you to the owner of this park, this Mr. Y." Without another word she started to walk in the direction of the Aerie.

Gustave panicked. He could not be dragged back to Erik. A scream broke free. "All right! Let go, please! I'll tell you where my parents are!"

The lady stopped, nodding wisely. "Of course. Now where are they? Speak up, young man, I haven't got all day."

Gustave pointed, finger shaking slightly. "There. That man."

"Who?" She turned around, grip loosening just a bit.

Gustave pulled, hard. His arm slipped free and then he ran, hearing only the woman's squawk as she realized what just happened. He dove through the crowd, slipping between one family and out the entranceway to Phantasma.

He did not stop; the fear of being taken back to Erik had become so great, so irrational, that he was not thinking properly anymore. Before he knew it he was out on the streets of Coney Island and sucked into the streets and carriages and myriad people.

It was only by luck that he managed to end up near the Phantasma Hotel, and the sight of that familiar place made him stop in his tracks. He stood at the entrance, watching the couples and families file in and out suitcases in tow. They pushed around Gustave, not noticing him.

He sunk down on the pavement. He felt lost. He could not live at Phantasma. He needed someone to help him, to love him. And Erik could not do that. And that left…Raoul. It felt like ages had passed since he had last seen the man he once called 'Father'. But that was the only person who might take him in.

Gustave stood up, feeling panic settling in. He was at the Phantasma hotel, but he didn't know which way to go. And the hotel was his only point of safety, the only place that was even slightly familiar. Everything in him told him to stay put.

But there was nothing to stay put for.

Gustave cradled his head in his arms. He had been staring out the carriage when they were brought here by the three freaks; he knew which way it was to the pier. He just had to think…to remember…

And perhaps it was his father's abilities coming into play, but he remembered, quite clearly, which direction to go. He stood up, gulping down a few remaining tears. Enough crying, enough grief. He was on his own right now, and he would have to leave.

And so, Gustave left the door of the hotel and went down the street.

* * *

The vase crumbled under Erik's step, shattering into even smaller pieces. Erik paused, looking down at it; the vase, an antique, was little more than dust.

He paced around his home aimlessly, pausing by the bedroom to Gustave's room. Then he walked on. He waited. It hurt to think, to see… He felt that black void calling to him, a place he could sink into where he could feel no self-loathing, no grief…

It was passing by the piano that he saw a piece of musical composition. It was scrawled in a neater hand than his own, yet looked oddly familiar; it was a moment before he remembered that Gustave had tried to write his own music, when he came wandering into his home. He looked at it, unsure whether to smile or to rip it up. That one action had set off the entire stream of events…

He turned it over and felt something akin to a punch in the gut. On the back was his letter to the Vicomte.

Erik lay down the paper and put his head in his hands.

* * *

Squelch was huffing slightly when he caught up with Fleck and Dr. Gangle.

"I saw him," said Squelch shortly. "He was taking some food. A lady caught him, but he ran off before I could get to him."

Fleck's dark eyes flashed. "Did you see where he went?" she asked.

"The entrance, I think."

"Headed for the pier," concluded Dr. Gangle. "We will go there, then. Take the carriage."

"The carriage?" whispered Fleck. "The child will recognize it on sight. He rode in it."

"We cannot catch up to him now, and we stand out already as we are," answered Dr. Gangle. He tapped her head gently. "And he might change his mind. He might even be lost. He'll need to find his way back. Maybe we can be of help there…"

* * *

After what felt like hours of walking, Gustave ended up at the pier. The amount of people had intensified, and Gustave found himself more often pushed to a place than walking there. Steamer ships from all over the world were lining up, joined by the ever-constant Coney Island band and gangs of roving reporters.

Gustave stared up at the ship. It could have been the one which had brought him to Coney Island from France, for all he knew. There were people going up and down the long ramps, men carrying huge packages…it would be all too easy, Gustave thought, to simply join a family and sneak in…right?

He moved closer, almost to the ramp. Below him was the Atlantic Ocean. He stepped back automatically, his old fear of drowning coming back to haunt him. But why in the world was he still frightened by the sea? He could swim, now.

And who had taught him to swim?

He moved back. Some child's sense of home and loyalty told him that he could not leave. Raoul was gone from his life now. As soon as his mother had died, telling him the truth, he had felt the gap between himself and Raoul open. And deep down, he could not imagine himself back in France. He simply was not the same little boy who had journeyed over from Paris.

But still, he did not want to go back to Erik. Erik wanted him to go back to Raoul, and he knew that he didn't want to go back. But maybe, he thought, he could convince Erik to let him stay a little longer. And even if he didn't, he wouldn't be going back to France immediately. Even if, in the end, he would have to go back, he should be spending his remaining time with his real father, not running away like a little child.

Gustave stepped back from the port. He felt a lifting of the constant terror within him as he made his decision. Then he went back to the long walk along the beach, quickly losing himself in the crowds occupied with the pavilions, the hotels, the shops…

* * *

"Don't hit them so hard," admonished Fleck. "You know the Master likes the horses."

"Only the black ones," smiled Dr. Gangle. Squelch did not add to the inane conversation.

They wandered up and down the streets of Coney Island, protected by the reverence held for Mr. Y. They had gone up and down the street parallel to the port, though it was not as if they could see anything over the numerous buildings and people.

"Do you think he boarded the ship?" asked Dr. Gangle nervously.

Fleck shook her head. "He will come back."

They turned the carriage once more, going back in the direction to Phantasma.

Presently, Squelch muttered, "I see something." Gangle started to turn, but Squelch stopped him. "Don't," he muttered. "Pretend you don't see him." To Fleck, "Go slower, if you can. Let him follow."

Dr. Gangle did as told. Sometimes, from out of the corner of her eye, Fleck would see the boy, flitting in and out of the crowd. He had his father's way of remaining hidden, she thought. An eye for the shadows and for knowing when someone might be looking.

They pulled into Phantasma, and the three freaks quickly occupied themselves with tying off the horses and putting the carriage away. Their movements, however, were less efficient than usual, since all three were also busy looking out for the boy.

"I saw him," said Dr. Gangle quietly. "He's inside now."

Squelch nodded and left them. After a moment, Fleck followed, heading in another direction; soon, Dr. Gangle was gone as well.

The three circled the park, each keeping a careful distance from the boy. One behind, one to his right, one to his left, and all three determined to trace them. They need not have been so careful. Gustave may have been the Phantom of the Opera's son, but he was also a ten-year-old boy intent on finding a place to rest.

"The rollercoaster," whispered Fleck moments later.

"He sleeps there?" hissed Dr. Gangle, aghast. "It's the loudest thing in the park!"

She shook her head. "It's been closed the last day or so," whispered Fleck. "Just some maintenance with the lights. It's been quiet; that's where he's been staying."

Squelch appeared at her elbow. "We tell the Master, then."

She nodded. "Yes. Let us go."

* * *

Okay, THIS might be the filler chapter.

As we reach the end (well, sort of, I seem to be having a problem wrapping up the story), I would like to say that I love reading all your reviews, and I am eternally grateful to those who have read and reviewed each chapter (something I don't even attempt to do). So...review, please! And, um, have an awesome day!


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

Erik raised his head. "Under the rollercoaster?" he repeated.

The three freaks nodded. "He went to the pier, but did not board a ship," explained Fleck. "We had the carriage out on the streets. He saw and followed us back to Phantasma. We followed him to his hiding place."

They waited for a reaction, and were roundly disappointed. Erik looked much the same as always.

"Master?" came Gangle's voice into the silence. "Should we, perhaps, talk to him?"

"No." Erik stood up sharply. "I will do this. Leave him alone. I must do this."

Dr. Gangle stepped back respectfully, signaling the others to leave.

Erik paced up and down, taking care to avoid the piano where the letter still lay, in the same place as always. After this fiasco, the only surprise was that Gustave had not boarded a ship for a destination as far away from him as possible. But he would not be shocked if the boy wanted to leave.

After this, Erik thought, whatever the boy wanted – France, America, China, for all he cared – he would give it. He had not been a good father; hell, he had been the worst excuse for a father, ever. But he had to do this right, at least. He had to start making it up, somehow.

Erik waited until night had fallen. Phantasma would be brightly lit, as always, but Coney Island at night was familiar with masked or cloaked men. Or both.

The hours passed. Erik waited.

* * *

Gustave crawled out from under the rollercoaster in the evening and made his way to the freaks' tent. Passing by the dining area, he was tempted to take a morsel of food, but the previous incident left him wary of such thievery. Perhaps later, under cover of darkness, he would try…

He merged with the crowds and easily slipped away into the back; as luck would have it, it was intermission, of a sorts, for the performers, and they were milling about excitedly, changing into new costumes, rehearsing their parts, or simply taking a break (as Gustave observed when he passed by a couple clearly in the throes of passion).

Gustave found his old, hidden corner, and settled down for a nap. He wasn't entirely sure when he wanted to go back to Erik. He had tried to get to the Aerie but had felt uncomfortable nervousness take over. What if Erik really did not want him back? He had been cruel to him, and he had to form some sort of apology. Gustave crawled out from under the rollercoaster in the evening and made his way to the freaks' tent. Passing by the dining area, he was tempted to take a morsel of food, but the previous incident left him wary of such thievery. Perhaps later, under cover of darkness, he would try…

He merged with the crowds and easily slipped away into the back; as luck would have it, it was intermission, of a sorts, for the performers, and they were milling about excitedly, changing into new costumes, rehearsing their parts, or simply taking a break (as Gustave observed when he passed by a couple clearly in the throes of passion).

Gustave found his old, hidden corner, and settled down. He wasn't entirely sure when he wanted to go back to Erik. He had tried to get to the Aerie but had felt uncomfortable nervousness take over. What if Erik really did not want him back? He had been cruel to him, and he had to form some sort of apology.

But the more time he wasted now, the less likely it was that Erik would allow him to stay. He scrambled to his feet, feeling fear overcome him. Sure, his father might search for him at first, but what if he decided he was better off without him? What if Erik decided he should just leave him outside without any help?

It was such a horrible thought that Gustave found himself sprinting through the park towards the Aerie. Night was falling, the cool air from the sear blowing at him, when he reached the looming tower at the far end of Coney Island.

* * *

Erik slammed open the door to the Aerie so hard it shook bits of stone off the walls. Not bothering to watch it shut he strode out into the emptied park, an uncharacteristic urge to shout his son's name rising in him.

He had to find him. He had t find his son and –

And do what? Apologize? Ask for forgiveness? And then command him to go sailing back to France? Unlikely. If the boy accepted him (and he could not imagine such a happy outcome happening to him), why would he want to leave? And if he did not, then Erik would have a perfectly valid excuse to bundle Gustave on to the nearest ship – and leave an aching hole in his heart.

He could not dwell on this. He had to find his son first, then deal with the consequences of his monumentally stupid actions.

"Gustave?" He crossed to the silent rollercoaster, peering through the cross beams. "Gustave?"

There was no answer. He ducked under the horizontal scaffolding and ventured within. He paused, listening, but could hear no telltale signs of life – no heavy breathing, no shuffling, no quick skittering.

He moved forward, intending to search every corner, then felt himself walk over a slight indent in the dirt. Kneeling down, he ran his fingers over the stones. Someone had been lying down here, but no longer. There was no warmth left, no child.

Gustave was gone. Perhaps he had heard Erik coming for him. Perhaps he had changed his mind and really left. It did not particularly matter anymore.

He emerged from out of the bowels of the ride and had to lean against the beams for a moment. A bone deep weariness had entered him. He was tired, so tired… tired of anger and fear and love, tired of hoping, tired of life… It had to end sometime, his dreadful cycle of love and loss and love again…

He reached the Aerie before he realized it, though each step felt like an eternity. The tower was shadowed, lonely, empty. Erik had to brace himself against the railing once more as he stared at it – his home of ten years, his workplace, his tomb.

A shuffling at the door made him drop his hand to his cloak. He checked the movement. What was the use? Probably just a customer lost on the island…

It was not. It was Gustave, struggling at the door and completely unaware of his father's presence.

Erik wondered if he was imagining things. Perhaps this was some delusion created by his mind. He wouldn't be surprised if it had completely broken under the strain.

"Gustave?" he said hoarsely.

The boy looked up, eyes widening. When Erik took a tentative step forward though, the boy stepped back fearfully. Seeming to realize what he had done, Gustave stopped, though every movement of his body seemed tense, ready to spring away.

Erik gestured to the door, not knowing what else to do. If this was some figment of his imagination, he certainly did not want it to end. "The door-" He wet his dry throat, tried again. "The door – the door needs to be opened a special way." He stepped forward, feeling some wellspring of hope within him when Gustave did not back away – when he, in fact, drew closer, curious.

Erik placed his hand on the place where a doorknob would be, and pushed gently. "You have to push this place up," he demonstrated, "then down." The door slid open, causing Gustave to leap back reflexively. Erik resisted the urge to grab his shoulder comfortingly.

"Do you – do you wish to come in?" he asked.

Gustave looked up the long staircase and nodded. He went in ahead of Erik.

If this is a dream, let it never end, Erik thought to himself.

His son had stopped in the middle of the room, looking around with an air of nervousness. Erik shut the door behind himself and went up to Gustave. Without thinking he let himself brush back Gustave's mussed up hair. It felt as real and soft between his fingers as before.

Gustave, clearly not expecting this, jumped a few inches in the air. Both jerked back.

"Would you-" Erik could not remember what he wanted to offer, and leapt on the first thing he thought of. "Would you like a bath?"

Gustave nodded, unconsciously brushing off the dirt speckled on his arms. Erik watched him enter the bathroom, then shut the door. He had to stand there and listen to the splashing of the water, to Gustave's little yelp as he entered the hot bath, to convince himself it was all still real…

When Gustave emerged, Erik had food set out on the table. Gustave looked up at him curiously, then sat down. After a silent moment, the boy asked, "Aren't you going to eat?"

Erik shook his head. Gustave frowned slightly, but his hunger was clearly too much for him to maintain his curiosity. He dug into the food while Erik watched, still amazed that this boy was sitting back at his table.

"Are you tired?" he asked when Gustave had finished.

Gustave shook his head. He looked around the room, started towards the piano, then paused, seeing something he would rather not have seen lying on the top.

Erik caught the line of his gaze and fairly flew over to the piano, tossing the ill-fated letter out of sight. Gustave dropped his gaze quickly, mortified that he had been seen looking at it. A hot flush came over him as he waited for the inevitable command.

"Gustave?"

He tilted his gaze up slightly, surprised at the hesitance in Erik's voice.

"Do you-" Erik visibly struggled, then suddenly said, "Do you wish to play the piano?"

Relieved that it had not been that dreaded question – "Do you want to go back to France?" – Gustave nodded, suddenly aware of how much his fingers ached for music, how much he wanted to let those notes come and express all the uncertainty he had been feeling. He left his half-finished dinner behind and settled at his father's side. Erik managed to hide his discomfort and the awkwardness he felt at having Gustave so close by.

"Have you written anything?" Gustave asked quietly.

Erik shook his head. He had not, could not, write any more music. Not when Christine was gone, not when he could never hear her voice again.

"You play, Gustave," he suggested. He was somewhat disconcerted when Gustave placed his fingers on the piano, then dropped them to his side. It seemed neither was in the mood for music.

"Erik?"

"Yes, Gustave?"

The boy looked up at him. "I'm sorry I ran away."

Erik stared at him. He could not fathom why Gustave was apologizing. He would expect the boy to run from him after his explosion, his angry declarations. How could the boy think it was his own fault?

"I – Gustave, you do not need to apologize," he said after a moment. "It was my fault…always my fault…" He looked away.

Gustave had nothing to say, or to do. When the silence grew too awkward he asked, "May I go to bed now?"

Erik nodded, standing. Gustave drifted apart from him, then paused at the doorway and turned to face Erik again. "Erik? Can you…stay with me?"

Erik only looked at him.

"Please? I…was lonely…outside."

Erik looked at him. "Very well. But only for a night."

Gustave bowed his head, then trotted back to his room. Erik joined him moments later, watching from the doorway as his son crawled into the bed and pulled the sheets up to his chin. When he struggled with the heavier blankets, Erik circled around the bed, tucking him in, yet being very careful not to touch him.

"Can you sing something?" Gustave asked.

Erik, who had pulled a chair up to the bed, paused. "Sing? I do not feel like singing."

"Oh." Gustave curled up and closed his eyes. Erik struggled to crush the sudden guilt crashing over him.

"I will try tomorrow, if you like."

Gustave nodded, eyes still closed. Erik sighed, crossing to the table to turn out the light, before sitting back down. He could barely see his son's little form under the covers. Fascinated, he pulled the chair closer, wincing when he scraped the floor, then sat again, examining the boy as best as he could in the darkness. He wondered if Gustave had lain on the floor of his park in the same position.

"I know that song," Gustave murmured sleepily.

Erik paused, realized he had been humming under his breath, and wondered what influence his son had over him if he could make him obey his demands so quickly, even unconsciously. "What song is it?"

"Mother sang it sometimes…" Gustave shifted under his covers, voice thick with sleepiness. "She said….she said…"

Erik finished the thought. "It was her debut aria, many years ago."

"Mm hm." Gustave's breaths slowed, deepened. Erik stood, sighing once more. Unable to resist, he stroked his son's head, but backed away quickly. What if his son should choose to return to the Vicomte, to the man who had been his father for ten years? He could not afford to become attached to him.

But when he started to leave he heard the covers being thrown back and Gustave's frightened voice echoing in the room.

"Where are you going?"

Erik answered slowly, "To my own room."

"Don't go!"

He turned swiftly. "You want me to stay? The entire night?"

"No." Gustave's voice was small. "Just until I fall asleep."

Gustave _had_ been asleep; it was his, Erik's, movements that had disturbed the boy. Strange, he had thought his son to be a deeper sleeper than that.

"Very well," he said, resigning himself to a night at his son's bedside. "Sleep, Gustave. I'll be here."

The movement of the covers stopped. "All night?"

"Yes, yes. Go to sleep. It is late."

He heard Gustave move around some more, his head fall to the pillow. Then,

"Erik?"

"Yes, Gustave?"

"Thank you."

He smiled, just a bit. "Sleep."

* * *

He did say all night, but when he knew it to be dawn, he left the room. Gustave awoke alone and disoriented, having already acclimated himself to the beams of the rollercoaster and the flapping of the tent. It was strange to see the bare, reflective ceiling above him and to feel the covers over him, to not be cold and hungry.

Well, actually, he was hungry. He flung aside the covers and quickly dressed himself, then ran out the door.

He paused, however, at the entrance to the great anteroom. Erik was sitting at the chair, reading a book with such intensity that Gustave knew he had been waiting for him. He could already imagine his father, pacing up and down the floor after leaving…

His father looked weary. And old. Gustave had never thought Erik could look that way. The man had frightened him half to death when Gustave had ventured into his tower for the first time, not knowing their connection… but to see Erik appear out of darkness as he had last night – no, it had been Erik's face that had sent a chill through him. He had never seen Erik look so weary, so drained…

"Good morning," he said.

Erik looked up, nodded, then gestured, still silent, to the table, where breakfast was waiting. Gustave sat down, wondering when, if ever, his father ate.

Erik put the book aside and walked to the far end of the table opposite from where Gustave was sitting, watching him expressionlessly. After a moment of tense silence, he said, "What would you like to do today?"

Gustave hesitated. There was still an air of uncertainty to the whole arrangement – was he going? Was he staying? Was his father attempting to make amends, or was he spending time because these were their last moments together? Unconsciously his eyes went to the piano, though the letter no longer remained there.

"We could play," suggested Erik, catching his gaze and perhaps deliberately misinterpreting it. Almost desperately he went to it, playing the keys. "You can compose some of your music – I would like to hear it."

His father, Gustave realized, did not know himself what he, Gustave, wanted, whether he was to leave or stay.

"Erik?" He stepped away from the table, drawing nearer. It was Erik who stepped back suddenly, looking frightened, looking as if he knew where the conversation was turning. "Erik, do you…want me to go back? To France?"

Erik let out his breath, turning away. He took a few seconds to gain control, then said, in a voice of unshakable calm, "If that is what you wish."

"But…what do you want?" asked Gustave.

"What do I want?" Erik turned; the question of what he wanted had not occurred to him. "I – I want to do – whatever will make you happy." He raised a hand to Gustave's head, then dropped it, shaken. "Whatever you want, Gustave… I just… I just want you to be happy."

Gustave lowered his gaze. He saw Erik move back, move around the piano, then step towards him. When he lifted his head it was to see the letter before him, spread out flat despite the obvious crinkles in the thick paper.

"It was your decision to make," said Erik stiffly, passing it to him. "It was always yours. Not mine."

Taking it, Gustave read it once more, the familiar words aching within him. From the corner of his eye he saw Erik step away and turn his back on him. It was a lonely feeling, a heavy responsibility. He tore his gaze from the letter, looked at his father's backside, then down to the crumpled paper in his hand.

So it was up to him. He sat down on the bench, feeling the words echo in his mind without any sense to them. And he thought of what he himself wanted.

To go back to France, to go to Raoul, the man he had called father for so long…he wanted to. France, Paris, Raoul… they were safe. He knew Raoul would welcome him back. They could go back to living as they had been before, even if his mother…was no longer there. He could forget the ordeal at Coney Island, too…

But Erik was his real father. Even if he had not acted like it. Even if, at some points, it had seemed as if Erik himself did not want Gustave around. Even if he had scared him. And Erik was like him. He understood parts of himself that nobody had, not even his mother had. And Gustave could not forget the few days and nights when he had followed Erik around like a puppy and pestered him with questions, of the intangible closeness forged at that time.

He set the letter down. There was no real decision to make; he had decided the day he had run off whom he had preferred to stay with. Standing, Gustave tried to think of a way to convey all this to Erik.

There was nothing. Only time would bring acceptance. But Gustave wanted to try.

He tapped Erik's shoulder and saw his father jerk. Then the older man turned, looking at him warily.

Gustave wrapped his arms around his father's waist, burying his head in Erik's shirt. He felt Erik stiffen under him, his hands grabbing onto Gustave's shoulder as if to throw him off. Then they stopped, dropped to his side, but did not move from there, did not try to take his son…not yet.

"Are you sure?" Gustave heard Erik whisper. "You would have a better life…a happier life…"

Gustave nodded into his father's chest. "I'm happy here."

Erik lifted his head, as if in benediction, as if in thanks.

"You're staying with me again?" Gustave demanded, crawling under his bedcovers.

"If you wish."

There remained an aloofness to his father, a hesitance to draw near. Gustave had to reach across this barrier they had both erected. But he had faith. He had hope.

"Will you read me a story? Or sing something?"

"Another night, Gustave." Erik walked around the length of the bed, watching him.

Gustave tugged the blankets around him. "So you'll stay tomorrow night, too?"

Erik blinked, not realizing he had fallen into Gustave's trap. "Why…yes, I suppose so." Cautious still, he added, Bt only if you want me to."

Gustave nodded, closing his eyes. He heard Erik turn off the light, felt the brightness of the light dissipate from the inside of his eyelids.

"Goodnight, Erik."

"Goodnight, Gustave."

* * *

There, see? Happy ending.

Anyway, I had this really big, climatic thing planned out, but I discarded it rather late in the story and wrote an entirely new sequence. It was incredibly melodramatic and overdone. I'll probably post it up as a deleted scene or something at the end.


	21. Chapter 21

No! This story is not over yet, despite my note at the end of last chapter!

There was a bit of a longer wait... But here's an extra long chapter! Though I don't like this chapter. It feels...sucky. Icky. Like there's a lot wrong and I don't know how to fix it.

So an extra long chapter of poor writing. Enjoy!

Chapter 21

"Good morning, Erik."

Why Erik? Gustave wondered. Why not 'Father'? Perhaps because 'Father' still conjured up images of another man, so different from the one before him. Erik did not look like the type to pick him up a young boy and swing him around.

Erik nodded briefly. "Good morning, Gustave." He gestured to the table. "Breakfast is here."

Gustave sat down. Erik watched him pick up his fork, then caught his son's gaze. Thinking he was making the boy uncomfortable he flushed and turned away, moving to the privacy of his own bedroom.

"F-Erik." Gustave still couldn't say it. "Do you want to eat?"

Erik's back was to him, and he did not turn around, speaking to the wall. "I already ate." The mask shone dully in the light.

"But – do you want to sit down?"

"Why?"

Gustave shrank into his chair. "I-I thought you might be lonely."

What his father was thinking Gustave did not know; all he saw was Erik pause, consider his words, then turn and shove a chair from the opposite end of the table to sit down in.

"Well?" snarled Erik, as if this was an everyday thing. "Are you going to eat?"

Gustave quickly averted his gaze and started to shovel food into his mouth.

"Slower! Slow down!" hissed his father from across the table. "Do you want to choke?"

Gustave shook his head mutely. Truth be told, he hadn't even tasted whatever it was he was putting in his mouth – it looked like some kind of oatmeal.

When he was finished Erik stood and swept the bowl from right under Gustave's face. "I will wash," he said brusquely, putting it under a tap. Running water, Gustave thought with amazement, hurrying over to take a look. How did his father get it – and all the way up in a tower, too…

"What is it?" asked Erik harshly, pushing the washed plate aside so hard it almost slipped from the stand.

"Nothing." Gustave was not about to explain his sudden fascination with plumbing. He leaped back from the counter as Erik moved, and wished immediately he had not done it so fast, or under Erik's gaze. There was a dark quality to his father's expression that thoroughly scared him.

Erik gazed around the room, eyes flicking from the emptied table to the sofa to the piano – anywhere but at Gustave, in fact – and said, "What do you want to do now?"

Gustave had no idea. And the longer he remained silent, the more he could feel the tension rise between them. Why had he thought this might be easy? And why was Erik so aloof, so distant? He would have thought his decision to stay would have ended any conflict, but it hadn't. If anything, Erik seemed to be drawing further and further away.

"Could you – could you – teach me something?" he asked tentatively.

He shouldn't have asked – the question made Erik tense and his already brooding expression darken even more. Yet he replied, "What do you wish to learn?"

Now Gustave was at a loss. He glanced around the much emptied room, missing the automatons – surely that would have occupied several days at least – then caught the bookshelves, with their magnificent leather-bound volumes, and remembered the silent hours spent reading with his mother…and later, with Erik himself…

He pulled out a particularly heavy book, bringing it crashing to the floor. He lifted a corner and managed to see Erik catch himself from rushing over.

"Can we read together?" asked Gustave, hauling the book onto the sofa (still battered and with bits of the stuffing missing).

"Very well." Erik made it sound like the task was a chore of monumental proportions. Gustave bit his lip as he sat down beside him. Erik also seemed to feel uncomfortable about their proximity, and shifted further away. But that would not do, Gustave thought, forcing himself to bridge the gap, to sit right next to Erik.

Erik said in a tone of forced calm, "What are you reading?"

"Fairy tales." He winced at Erik's snort. "Please? I liked to read them with Mother-" Too late, too late, he thought, seeing Erik's face change. "I mean – I liked to read them…but we don't have to-"

"No." It was said so snappishly even Erik himself noticed; trying to calm down, he said, "Go on." He glanced at the boy. "Do you want to read them aloud?"

"M-Mother – used to read them to me."

"Did she?" Erik flipped through the thick pages, stopping now and then to examine some minutely detailed illustration. "Which did you prefer?"

"The exciting ones. But she liked other ones."

"Such as?"

"The Cinder Girl… Briar Rose… Rapunzel…" He paused. "She never read me this one…"

Erik took one look at the title and slammed the book closed. Gustave, startled, could only watch as his father shoved the book away and stood, muttering, "Let's do something else."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, Gustave!" he snapped, rounding on the boy. "Whatever you want!"

Gustave did not run, would not run. Erik did not scare him, he did not… But his face betrayed his true feelings, for he saw Erik's expression change to self-loathing for that brief second before he turned around.

"Go to your room."

"But I just got up-"

"Then stay!" Erik strode to the door. "I need to go."

Panicked, Gustave ran after him and was shoved back when he drew too close. Feeling his shoulder ache where his father had pushed him, he cried out, "Where are you going?"

"Outside."

"But why?"

"Because I have neglected it for too long!" was Erik's answer. He tossed on his cloak in one smooth gesture, the ends swirling around him. "I will be back momentarily."

"But Er-"

Too slow. Erik was gone.

* * *

God damn himself for thinking he could handle a child, for putting the decision in the boy's hands. Of course Gustave would choose to stay. Had had thought, had even hoped, that his son would decide to go back to the Vicomte. He was Christine's son; why hadn't he inherited her predilection for abandonment?

She chose to stay with you, hissed a voice. Yes, he snapped back, and look what it had brought her. He had to stop his pacing, to lean against the fence of the park where he had hidden himself. The pain never went away…

The sound of laughter caught his attention. The park was crowded, in peak season. Children of all ages were wandering with their parents, who, this early in the day, had not yet acquired the drawn facial expressions of adults who had been out for too many hours with overly energetic children.

How did they do it? How did they know what to do? Surely they had been inexperienced once. He felt painfully, hopelessly helpless whenever he looked at the boy and could not think of what to do to keep him entertained, to keep him happy and healthy and learning…

He couldn't afford to try and love the boy again. It was too hard, too painful to feel again… to try and open himself up to someone else. What if he were to lose Gustave? What if the boy were to –

That was about when he was flung forward as something very small and very fast thumped into him. Or more appropriately, rammed into his legs.

He flailed in an incredibly inappropriate and ungraceful way to regain balance before looking down, expecting to see some small meteor at his feet. He only found Gustave.

"Gustave-" he started to snarl.

"Erik!" He was gripping Erik's leg for dear life and completely cutting off the circulation to the limb.

"Gustave!" He shoved the boy away and hissed at him, "What are you doing? I told you to stay inside the Aerie!"

"You did not," Gustave pouted, trying to draw nearer. He was met only with a push back. He stared pleadingly at his father. "Why did you leave?"

Erik snapped, "I told you – and I did tell you this, don't you deny it – I had to look after the park!"

Gustave looked down, scuffling at the stones. "I was lonely," he murmured.

"Lonely?" scoffed Erik. "I left you for a minute, at the longest."

Gustave didn't answer that. Erik turned away, looking out over the park, over the happy families. It seemed impossible that they could feel as lost as he did, as impossible as the task of fatherhood seemed to him.

Then Gustave stole up behind him and slipped his small hand into Erik's. Erik stared down at their clasped hands, then back at the boy. But he did not let go.

"Come back inside?" Gustave pleaded. He gave a tiny tug at his arm, looking back to the tower. "I missed you," he added.

"Miss me?" rasped Erik. "Why?"

"You're my father." He gave another pull. "Come back? Please?"

Throat too dry to speak, Erik nodded and let Gustave pull him back to the Aerie.

* * *

That was how it began – with small gestures, tiny instances of trust, of faith in the other. A conversation that lasted more than a few moments. A shared joy in creating some mechanical creation. An awkward hug between father and son before bedtime. But mostly a curious boy who followed his father around everywhere, chattering away, and a man who, for all his intimidation and darkness, clung to the child's obvious love.

"Do you always wear the mask at home?" Gustave asked one morning.

Erik, sitting at the piano, did not look up from the piece he was examining – one of Gustave's. "Yes."

Gustave got the feeling his father was lying. "All the time?" he asked next, tapping at a key.

"Yes." Erik's masked face was to him, and he only turned his head more to the side, hiding what little expression Gustave tried to discern. The boy bent down over the piano keys, trying to peer at Erik.

"Even when you eat?" he asked quizzically.

"Yes." Erik picked up a quill and scrawled out a note. Gustave tilted his head sideways to see the correction, agreed with it, then went on:

"And when you sleep?"

"Yes."

"What about when you're washing?"

"I – yes."

"On the toilet?"

"Gustave!" roared Erik. "Enough questions about the mask!"

The boy shrunk away, but only for a moment. Erik reflected that his temper was not going to keep the boy cowed for long. Gustave was irrepressible; soon, Erik thought, the boy would be immune to anything he said or did. He shuddered at the thought of the boy hugging him should Erik have a temper tantrum – yet another part of him wished and waited for that day, for a person who would not shrink back from him.

"So…on the toilet too?" repeated Gustave, already regaining his courage.

"No!" snapped Erik, slamming his pen into the inkwell. "Not there!"

"So you take it off then?"

"Yes!"

"And when you bathe, too?"

Erik let out his breath between his teeth, almost a hiss. "Yes."

Head still cocked to one side, Gustave kept going. "And when you sleep, right?"

A sigh from his father. "Yes, Gustave."

"And eating?"

"Sometimes," conceded Erik grouchily; that much was true, since how could he eat if there was a white piece of leather blocking his mouth?

Gustave visibly brightened. "So can you take it off now…sometimes?" he added hastily, when it looked as if Erik was about to explode.

He waited. Erik was not looking at him, but at the sheets of music; yet his gaze was shadowed, and Gustave knew he was lost in his own thoughts. Moments crept by.

"You want to see it?" And try as Erik might, he could not rein in his hope, and hated himself for being so open.

Gustave nodded.

Erik lifted a hand to the mask and hesitated. He should not, he ought not to, not to his ten year old son – but a recklessness took over and he pulled it off, laying it on the top of the piano. It felt odd. He had not worn a mask – why should he, in his own home – but he had taken to wearing it again when Christine and Gustave had entered his life. Now he felt again the sense of being exposed, and moreover, the sense of being stared at. It was another few moments before he could meet Gustave's eyes, waiting for the inevitable repulsion.

Gustave fought the urge to look away; he was sitting on his father's right side, and all he could see was the deformity, without even the comfort of the good side of Erik's face. Erik dropped his gaze again, as if in apology for the horror. Gustave, too, looked away, feeling ashamed.

Then, Erik turned around and glared at him. "Move," he ordered.

"What?"

"Move." Erik lifted the boy and tried to place him on his left. He did not count on Gustave grabbing onto the piano edges and struggling with all his might to stay in one place.

"Gustave. I told you to move."

"I want to stay here!"

"What in the world for?" shouted Erik.

"Because…I like it here," finished Gustave lamely. He was looking down, he realized, and quickly switched his gaze back up to his father's unmasked visage. It was no longer so hard to look at his father without his mask on, he thought.

"Fine," snapped Erik. On your head be it, were the unspoken words. He went back to his composition, playing notes so loud and tumultuous they were at a discord with Gustave's own composition. There was an agitation and jerkiness to his movements that belied other thoughts. With each furious note Gustave flinched, backing further and further away from the piano.

After a particularly jarring note, Erik swung around, glaring at his son who realized too late that he had pushed himself far away from Erik. Too far.

"Well?" he barked. "What are you waiting for?"

Gustave gripped the seat hard, trying to look his father straight on, no matter the difficulty. "What?"

"I know you want to run," his father hissed. "Go ahead! Run to your room, if you want!"

"I don't want to run," Gustave squeaked, though he had left the bench and was now moving behind the piano – but not because of his father's face, he thought fiercely to himself, never because of that. "I want…" He had nothing left, nothing to calm his father's rage.

"What?" Erik roared, getting up and following his son. He grabbed the edges of the piano top to lean over, shouting in the boy's face. "Well? Spit it out!"

"I want…"

"What do you want?"

Gustave cowered back. His next words came out in a jumble. "I want to call you Father!"

Erik rocked backward, holding himself against the piano. "What?"

Gustave wanted to run to the other side of the room, but something within him knew that it would destroy whatever it was he had initiated. "I thought…since I'm staying…I should. And I want to. Please?"

He waited for a response from his father. There was none, save for Erik closing his eyes, as if in pain. With shocking swiftness he stood, almost fleeing the piano. Gustave watched in disbelief as his father sat on the ground, leaning against the back of the sofa.

"Father?"

Gustave left the piano as well, sitting beside Erik.

Erik turned towards him, raised his hand towards his son's face, then dropped it. Gustave moved closer, staring unhesitatingly at his father's hideous face.

Erik whispered, "Gustave…"

Gustave leaned against him, disconcerted but not completely surprised when his father remained in his own position, neither pushing away nor reciprocating the gesture.

Erik removed his hands, and despite the initial signs, his face was dry. But there was some shade in his face that seemed to convey utter bewilderment.

"Gustave…I'm so frightened…"

Gustave stared uncomprehendingly at him.

"I'm trying…to be a good father…but I don't know how…" Erik turned to Gustave and rested a hand lightly on Gustave's head. He continued, in a tone struggling to conceal all his emotions, "I already ruined my first chance… how do I do right by you?" He removed his hand. "My son…" It was said in a tone of wonder. "My son… you do not even seem like my son…"

Gustave felt a ripple of fear; he was sure it was these thoughts that had preceded Erik's aborted attempt to get rid of him. Hoping to prevent any more such thoughts, Gustave leaned in close to his father. It did not feel too different from when he was younger and he had gone to Raoul for comfort.

"You see?" Erik held Gustave hesitantly, as if afraid to touch him. "How could I have helped create…you?" He laid his fingers against Gustave's face, still lightly, still scared. "You don't act like me…you don't think like me…you don't even look like me…"

Gustave raised his head and smiled sweetly. "You have blonde hair," he said.

Erik blinked, then touched the wisps on his skull that served for hair. They were a dark golden color, dull and lifeless from so many hours beneath a wig.

"I have blonde hair," said Gustave, though his own shiny, light blonde hair could not be more different from his father's. Gustave grabbed his father's hand and hauled him to the piano. He played a few notes, letting them tinkle through the room. Erik followed the tune. "You like music…" Gustave said. "I like music."

Erik tapped out another melody and Gustave echoed it, note for note. "I think we're very alike," said Gustave. He smiled, looking up at Erik's face, Erik's deformity, and did not flinch. "Father."

Erik grabbed him, clutching the boy against his body. Gustave, head buried in his father's shirt, nevertheless felt his stifled sobs. He hugged him back just as tightly, and Erik, fingers tightening over his son's body, said only, "My son."

* * *

"Didn't you say you were going to teach me a magic trick?"

Erik nodded. "I did." He drew the boy to a couch before pulling out a deck of cards. Gustave sat and watched attentively, reaching for the cards. After swatting his son's prying hand away, Erik continued, "It all comes down to flexibility and the dexterity of your fingers …"

That was how their summer days sped by. Gustave had never felt such freedom before. Every day he woke up almost whenever he wanted – his father drew the line at noon. Yet Erik was often up so early – sometimes he didn't even sleep – that Gustave, not wanting to miss anything, would often scramble out of bed as soon as the sun rose to join him, sometimes with clothes only halfway on. His messy appearance would sometimes elicit a sigh from his father and a halfhearted attempt to clean him up. Other times, Erik would simply be too absorbed to do more than take notice of Gustave's arrival.

After breakfast – the only meal Erik did not have a tendency to forget – Gustave could do whatever he wished. Oftentimes he was at the piano, or the violin, or whatever new instrument Erik brought (and there were many). Other times he would join his father at whatever the multi-talented man happened to be doing, including building a model of Phantasma, complete with miniature, moving rollercoasters. Many hours were spent on lessons, the most interesting Gustave ever had, ranging across all subjects. Erik had never had a teacher and knew very little about a child's limits and experiences. All he did was pick up a book, take out a figurine, place a pencil in his son's hand, and teach, neither knowing nor caring about Gustave's prior knowledge or even good teaching strategies. And Gustave loved it.

"Sleight of hand requires patience, discipline, and practice." Erik tapped his son's knuckles. "Do you think you can handle that?"

Gustave nodded eagerly. His father smiled.

"Very well. We'll have to set aside some time every day for this, by the way…"

This became overwhelming just because of the number of subjects Gustave was learning. Erik, to him, seemed a walking encyclopedia, able to talk about virtually any subject. And Gustave, with the short attention span of a young boy, went leaping from one topic to another, many seemingly unconnected. Yet Erik went along with it. Perhaps he, too, could intuit the leaps Gustave's mind made. It didn't matter, though. Erik indulged his interests, and was a patient, gentle teacher. The only constant was music.

"Did you teach mother to sing?" Gustave asked once, seated beside Erik at their piano.

Erik shifted slightly, hesitant still with the topic of Christine. "I did. When she was a younger…" He trailed off, then shifted subjects to ask, "Did you learn to sing?"

Gustave shook his head. "I sang once. Mother told me not to. I do not think I sang very well." He smiled apologetically.

Erik frowned. "Impossible. If you are your mother's son, then you should have inherited an exquisite voice." He started a few chords. "Come. Sing this for me."

He passed over the music sheet. Gustave gave it a quick look, but not much more, as Erik had already started playing. So Gustave raised his voice and sang along. It was a simple melody, nothing too difficult but for the end, which required a higher note that he was sure he could attempt. He didn't know how he was doing, and he didn't particularly care; singing had never been his main interest.

When he was finished, he saw Erik giving him a very odd stare. After a moment of intense curiosity (Had he done well? Or had he destroyed his father's ears with his terrible voice?) Erik said, "I see why your mother would not let you sing."

"Why?"

"You sound like me."

Gustave blinked. He wasn't sure if that was praise or not. For one thing, he had never heard his father sing.

"Do you sing well? Mother said you did," he said.

Erik smirked. "You could say that."

"Could you sing something?" He pointed to the song he had just finished. "That one?"

Erik raised an eyebrow – it was a very easy tune – but sang anyway. And Gustave fell under his spell. He had only a brief moment to think, How could Father say I sing like that? before he was swept away by Erik's voice.

When it was over – far too soon, for Gustave – he applauded, his clapping echoing in the cavernous room. Erik gave a little mocking bow.

"I don't sing like you!" cried Gustave a little later.

Erik snorted. "Of course you do. You are young and untrained, but I can hear your potential underneath." He gazed musingly off into the distance.

"Would you teach me?"

"You already have magic lessons to keep up and musical composition and all those other subjects you want to learn," said Erik, sounding amused. "Are you sure you want to learn even more?"

Gustave sighed. "No, I suppose not." He leaned in against his father, feeling the familiar tensing, then relaxing, of Erik's body. "I'm not as smart as you."

Erik stroked Gustave's hair. "You are a very sensitive and forgiving boy, Gustave. I think that is more important than intelligence at times." He sighed, releasing him. Gustave continued to rest against him, though. His father was not comfortable with people being close to him, and Gustave intended to change that.

Erik said, after a moment of indecision, "Perhaps I could teach you…" He took off the mask, rubbing at the areas where it had irritated his skin. "It has been a while since I had a student in singing, though…"

"You taught Mother," reminded Gustave, "and she was the greatest in France. In the world. Everyone said so."

Erik smiled sadly. "She was." He sighed. "I taught her everything I knew, because her voice was one that comes only once in a lifetime…and I did everything in my power to make her the star of the opera… but after her debut… well, it did not go as I had hoped…"

Gustave had never heard the full story of his parents' lives, only tiny hints from his mother. And now it was too late to ask her. But he could ask his father.

"What happened?"

"It is not a story for children," answered Erik sternly.

"But-"

"It is also past your bedtime." He stood.

"No it-"

"Yes," said Erik, implacable. "Go to bed."

"Father!"

"Gustave, I will tell you the story when you are older."

Gustave exclaimed, "But I want to hear it now!"

"No!" Erik slammed the keys of the piano, hard, eyes blazing. "There are some things a child should not know!" He took a breath, trying to calm himself. "There are things…a child should not know about his parents." He closed his eyes, not seeing Gustave take a tentative step forward. "Not yet. Not now."

Gustave lowered his head. "All right, Father."

Erik nodded resignedly. "I will tell you someday, Gustave. Just not today."

"Yes, Father." Gustave hugged Erik around the waist. "Good night."

"Good night, Gustave."

And so the days would pass, the two staying in their tower away from Phantasma. And slowly, the shadow of Christine's death started to pass. It would always be there – neither could ever forget her – but the grief that had overwhelmed Erik started, very quietly, to fade.

* * *

"Father! Father!"

Gustave burst into Erik's room so fast the door slammed into the wall opposite it. If that had not been enough to wake Erik, Gustave's body plunging into the bed next to him would have been.

"Gustave!" He was sitting up, reaching for his mask with one hand, the other hurrying to cover his deformed side.

Gustave burrowed his head into his father's covers. "I had a nightmare. Can I sleep with you?"

A pause. "What kind of nightmare?"

Gustave shook his head. "I don't remember."

"You don't remember?" repeated Erik, exasperated. He had been forced awake, had an utterly panicked moment as he struggled to cover himself, for this? "Truly? Then how do you even know it is a nightmare?"

The boy mumbled indistinctly and tried to curl in closer. Erik shoved him from the bed with his free hand.

"What did you say?"

"I said 'I just do'," replied Gustave grouchily. "Can I sleep here? Please?"

"No, Gustave. Go back to your room."

"But I'm scared!" He grabbed on to Erik's shoulders and held on as if for dear life, his face touching Erik's deformity. Erik jerked back. Gustave, not offended but in a noticeably sadder tone, said, "Please, let me."

"No," said Erik firmly. "To bed with you. Your own bed." He pushed the reluctant boy out and settled down for his own sleep.

The voice came from near his elbow.

"Father?"

He growled, "Now, Gustave."

The light scampering across the floor and the click of the door were the only things he heard before he closed his eyes again.

* * *

"Watch this."

Erik placed his hands on Gustave's shoulders and maneuvered the boy until both were facing the majestic angel statue standing over them both.

He clasped his son's wrist and said, "Lift your hand and move it…like so…"

A light flared up from within the angel, revealing every line and contour of the now-hollow statue. Gustave jumped back, not in fright but in amazement, eyes bright with wonder.

"How did I do that?" he exclaimed, staring at his own hand. As he lowered it the light dimmed, the angel going back to its dull, burnished gold color.

"Now that you will never know," said Erik, tapping his son's head.

"Father!"

"It is a secret."

"Please!"

"Very well, Gustave-"

"Really?"

"I will reveal it to you on my deathbed."

"Father!" Gustave shook at his sleeve. "How did you do it? Can I know? Can you show me?"

"Later, later!" Erik dragged the boy to the piano. "Come now, you wanted to learn about mechanics, did you not? I will show you, and then I can teach you about our friend there."

"Mechanics?" repeated Gustave as his father lifted him onto the piano top.

"Yes. And don't pull that face. You will need this knowledge if you want to play with my model," he gestured to the miniature of Phantasma, knowing full well that Gustave played with it quite often, "or build another automaton," of which there were none at the moment, all having been smashed to bits.

"Is it interesting?" asked Gustave, leaning over to pick at the tiny gears, the little metal screws, the wheels and levers and unmade pulleys lying before him.

Erik assured him, "Very. It requires a steady touch, particularly for the smaller ones."

"I have a steady – steady-"

"Touch? You dropped all of your magic cards whilst walking the length of the room."

Gustave scowled. "I tripped."

"You tripped over a flat surface?" Erik's face showed no amusement, but Gustave could see merriment dancing in his eyes.

"I bumped into the table! It tripped me."

"So you did not see an object larger than you coming before you? And how does a table trip you – did it walk up to you and stick out its leg-"

"Father!" Gustave crossed his arms and pouted at him.

Erik smiled. "Very well, Gustave, I will trust you. Here, let me teach you. The men of the Renaissance classified six types of simple machines… that one you are holding is a gear…the one lying next to you is a wheel…"

* * *

"Father? Father!"

He was being shaken, quite roughly, and he followed his immediate instinct – sit upright very quickly and grab the offending object, namely his son's arm. Gustave squeaked in surprise.

"My apologies," muttered Erik, releasing him. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and said, "Gustave, what is it?"

"Nightmare."

Erik groaned. "Gustave…"

"Please? Please? I promise I won't make any sound, and I won't kick you or hurt you-"

"No, Gustave."

"But I'm scared!"

"Then conquer your fear." Erik rolled over. "Go back to bed."

"But-"

"Now."

His tone left no room for argument, and presently he heard Gustave slouch back to his room.

* * *

"Morning, father."

Erik was glad he had no headboard or decorations on his bed, for he would have knocked himself unconscious from the speed he sat up.

"I brought you breakfast," said the little shadow at the doorway. Gustave came in as energetically as one could while balancing several plates, and plopped himself on the bed, not noticing the flurry of movement as Erik struggled to put on his mask and wig. "I thought we could eat together, in here," he said chirpily. "I used to do – I used to do that."

Erik did not bother to ask what Gustave had negated, and did not want to know, either. He lifted the cover from the plate to peer at the food, buying time as Gustave chattered to him.

"Gustave… perhaps you would like to go outside…"

Gustave paused mid-word. "Why?" He glanced around. "And why is it so dark?" He perked up, so much so it was visible even in the gloom. "Do you have lights here like the ones outside? Do you have to move like this?" And he started waving his arms wildly in the air.

Erik knocked him down, a little roughly. "No. They are ordinary lights. Now go outside-"

"Why?"

"-and I will join you momentarily."

"But I want to eat in here!" exclaimed Gustave, bouncing up and down on the bed. "I've never seen you eat, before."

So that was what the boy was after. Erik held back words better left unsaid and pushed his son from the bed. "I eat alone, Gustave. Go out. I will see you soon-"

"No! Father…" Gustave crawled back on, crawled closer to him. "I won't scream. I won't run away." He held up the plate of food. "Please?"

Erik hesitated. Then, "No."

He heard a sniffle from his son. Then another. And when he saw Gustave's body start to quiver with suppressed sobs, he gave up.

"Fine. Fine!" he snapped. "Stop crying, Gustave! You can stay." He snatched the food from him and tore off the mask, leaving the wig on.

Gustave moved closer, trying to see his father's face. "Really?"

"Didn't I just say that?" his father yelled. "Eat your breakfast!"

The boy paused. "What about the light?"

"No lights!" Erik was dimly aware that he was losing control, but he could not stop himself. He hated being forced into this, he hated how much his son had him under his control, he hated the entire situation. "Eat your food, and leave me be!"

Gustave was absolutely silent. There were no tears now, and Erik felt a heavy fear, that he had gone too far.

"I just wanted to eat with you," the boy said presently. "I never see you before breakfast…" He slid off the bed, and Erik heard the plate clatter with the utensils. "I'll go outside." He left, not looking back. Erik waited for the boy to come back in with his infectious smile, to tell him it was a joke and he would be here, annoying and pestering and loving Erik despite everything he did.

Nothing.

With a groan Erik threw aside his covers and stood, readjusting his mask and wig before making his way into the main room, food in hand.

He said "Gustave, I will-" but stopped when Gustave flung himself at his legs. He looked down and said, "-join you, if you wish."

Gustave smiled. "I knew you would." He grabbed his father's hand and led him to the table; once Erik had chosen a spot, Gustave hurried over, knocking over a chair in his rush, and sat down beside him. After righting the chair, Erik pulled off the mask and started to eat, pretending he did not feel Gustave's stare. But when the heat of the boy's gaze became too much he turned, quite deliberately, and glared at him.

"Do you not want to eat?" he hissed.

Gustave blinked, as if coming out of a daze. "Oh. Yes." He looked down, then back up, smiling once more and for reasons his father could not begin to fathom, and said, "I've never seen you eat before."

"Are my habits abnormal?" asked Erik sarcastically.

"No," replied Gustave, eating as well. When a quarter of his breakfast was gone, he ventured, "You never ate with me before, so…I wondered…"

"You wondered if I ate like normal people do?" asked Erik, still with the same dry tone. "Of course I do. I merely did not wish to…disturb you."

His son may have taken acting lessons from his mother, Erik thought to himself. The puzzled expression on his face seemed almost genuine.

"How would you disturb me?" asked Gustave.

Erik turned once more to look at him, silent. He saw Gustave's eyes rove over his face, once, twice, then settle on his deformity for perhaps a second, before shifting away again.

"I don't-" he started to say, then cried out when Erik seized his arms and forced him to stare at the deformity.

"Look at it!" he hissed. "No, do not look away – look at it! Look at me!"

Gustave brought his hands up, smacking his father's chest. Erik forced the boy away but not before Gustave could grab at his shoulders and snake a hand up to the gaping wound in his father's head. A shudder went through Erik's body and he grabbed at Gustave's hand, pulling it back.

"Does it hurt?" asked Gustave shyly.

Erik lowered his son's arm. "No," he answered. "Not physically."

"Physically?" repeated Gustave, making himself comfortable on his father's lap.

Erik noticed and lifted him off. "It has never hurt me the way an illness or wound might hurt me."

"Oh." Gustave grabbed his plate of food and sat back on his father's legs.

"Gustave…" Erik eyed his son. "You cannot expect to eat this way."

Gustave smiled at him and nestled closer. Erik was torn between letting him stay and shoving him off again; deciding it was far easier to just accept his son's constant cuddling, he pulled his own meal closer and finished it off quickly. When his plate was clean he balanced it on Gustave's head, smiling when Gustave laughed.

"You are very impertinent, Gustave," he told him.

Gustave set his own clean plate down and took off the one balancing on his head. He leaned back, looking up at his father. "What's impertinent?"

"Mmm… cheeky, impolite, shoving your hands where they don't belong…" Erik lifted Gustave off and placed him on the ground as he spoke. His mask was still on the table; he picked it up and replaced it, adjusting his wig. When he turned, Gustave was staring at him, clearly dissatisfied, though with what, Erik could not guess.

"What is it?" he asked him.

Gustave blinked and looked away. "Nothing."

* * *

It was quiet for about three nights. Come the fourth night, though, there was Gustave, pounding insistently on his back. This time, at least, Erik controlled the urge to lash out, at least physically.

"Gustave!"

"Father…" Gustave was sniffling. He was crying, and Erik could not bear to see his son cry. Softening his tone, he said, "What's wrong?"

"A dream," murmured Gustave, hanging his head in shame. Erik lifted his head back up so that they could look each other in the eye, as well as they could in the dark.

"What was it?"

Gustave shook his head. "I don't-"

"I'm certain you do remember, Gustave. Now why don't you come out and tell me?"

Gustave pushed himself on to the bed. "I dreamed I was with you and Mother. At your park. Then Mother went away. I tried to follow but I couldn't, but I was with you. But then you disappeared, too, and I couldn't find you either…and then I woke up."

Erik sighed. "That was it?" It did not seem too terrible a dream to him.

Gustave glared at him. "I was scared! You weren't there when I woke up either." He picked at the covers, murmuring, "You were always there before. And now you aren't."

Erik said, "Gustave, I'm not always going to be around, anyway."

Gustave raised panicked eyes to his face.

"You will have to leave here someday, when you are older. You will go out into the world, work, build a family…" He thought about adding on that he, Erik, would also die, but Gustave seemed distraught enough as it was. For the first time, Erik was aware of his age, of just how precarious a position his son would be should some accident befall him.

"Never mind, Gustave," he said, shaking his head free of his morbid thoughts. "Go back to your room. I promise I won't leave."

Gustave shook his head fiercely. "I want to stay here."

"Gustave…"

"Please? Just for one night?" He was already making himself comfortable under Erik's covers.

Erik sighed. One night…it wasn't too bad. "Very well. But only one night."

Gustave nodded eagerly, curling up next to his father. Erik lay down, pulling the covers properly around the both of them.

Only at one point did Gustave awake. Erik, half-asleep, felt the bed jerk as his son started awake.

"Father?"

"I'm here."

Gustave curled closer and went back to sleep.

* * *

The boy came running over to him as soon as he heard the door open. "Father!"

Erik did not flinch back when Gustave grabbed him around the legs, but he came close to it. "Gustave, I have only been gone an hour."

"I missed you."

He sighed. "Really? For an hour?"

Gustave nodded, releasing his father. "Where did you go?"

"To Phantasma. I was overlooking the construction." It was a fairly recent change; when he had first ordered the park to be built he had never shown himself to the workers. Even now, the urge to duck into the shadows whenever someone shot his mask an odd glance was overwhelming. He was not meant for the daylight.

His son, on the other hand…

Perhaps when Gustave was older, he could teach him all these things, have him go down with him to look at the inner workings of the park. He filed the thought away for later. It was a good idea, he thought to himself. The boy was intelligent, curious, and had an overwhelming need to learn. And he, Erik, was not young. His son would have to learn to manage his inheritance…

"Father?" Gustave pulled at his sleeve. "Could I go down with you next time?"

Erik briefly wondered if his son was a mind reader.

"No."

The last thing he needed was for the whole world to know that the reclusive Mr. Y had a son. He could not have the papers around him; they were already bombarding the performers with questions about him, distracting them from their duties. And if someone should find out the boy's relationship to Christine…heads would roll. Or more likely, bodies would dangle.

So, show the boy around the park…later.

"But there is nothing to do here!" Gustave protested.

Erik looked down at him with raised eyebrow. "I thought you were studying."

Gustave flushed. "Oh. Yes."

"Well?"

"I…" Gustave backed off. "I'll go study."

Erik watched as Gustave settled himself on the couch and opened a book that probably weighed more than he did. After a few moments of silence, Erik threw up his arms in defeat.

"Very well! You can come out with me!"

Gustave looked up in surprise. "Really?"

"Yes, yes. Come, you have been cooped up here too long, I think."

Gustave flung the book aside and raced to his father. "Thank you, Father!"

Erik gripped his shoulder. "No running away when you see something interesting, all right? Stay by me, all the time."

Gustave nodded, already dragging his father towards the door, then paused. "Are there going to be people around?" he asked.

"No, not today."

"So we get the entire park to ourselves?" he said happily. "No one to see us?"

"Yes."

"Just like when you and Mo-" He stopped.

Erik cupped the back of Gustave's head in his hand. "Just like when you, your mother, and I went out. Yes."

Gustave squeezed his father's hand as they went out.

The park was, indeed, empty of all people but the builders. The vendors with their games, the cooks at their stoves, were all home. There were no customers to sell to, after all. Once in a while, the workers would glance down in puzzlement at the sight of their masked employer walking around with a boy, but Gustave did not notice and Erik did not comment on it.

Gustave glanced around every which way, trying to see everything. It was cleaner that he remembered – the debris had been swept away, as always, but today there was no horde of new customers to make everything dirty again. And with new construction, every building and ride was quite clean.

Pointing to a glass-inlaid structure, Erik said, "This will be a new area, for showing off the newest inventions." He did not mention that it would most likely be his own inventions. The next area was set up with wooden fences, red barn buildings, and the distinctive smell of new hay. "A zoo, of sorts, with animals."

"What kind of animals?"

"Anything interesting – pigs, cows, sheep-"

"Those aren't interesting!" exclaimed Gustave. "What about elephants? Zebras? Lions?"

Erik laughed. "They would mix well with my goats, I am sure. You forget that many of the people who come here have lived their lives in the city, and have never seen a farm animal."

After half an hour of wandering, Gustave asked, "Where is the swing Mother and I rode on?"

"It is unmanned, as far as I know."

"Can I see it?" Gustave pulled free of Erik's hand.

"Gustave…" The boy looked back and grinned, then ran in the complete opposite direction from where the swing was. Erik snarled a curse and followed.

"Gustave!" He caught up to the boy quickly and snatched at his arm. "I told you not to run away from me!"

"Father, where is the swing-"

"Are you paying attention to me?" Erik gave the boy a hard shake. "Gustave! I specifically told you not to go running off on your own!"

Now realizing his father was serious, Gustave tried to explain, "I didn't go very far! I was only looking-"

"No! Enough looking, enough searching!" Erik dragged Gustave away, back to the Aerie. "Come! We are going back home!"

"But I didn't-"

"No 'buts'! Let's go."

And horror of horrors, Gustave started to cry, silently except for some sniffles, the tears running down his cheeks. Erik wanted to bash his head against a wall. Why was raising a child so damn difficult?

Why could Christine have not lived? Why could she not be here to help?

Only when they were in the Aerie did Erik stoop down to his son's level.

"Stop crying," he said brusquely.

Gustave sniffled, wiping at his nose with his sleeve, but that did not stop the tears.

"Stop crying, Gustave!" Erik said, voice rising.

Of course, it served only to make the boy sob harder. Erik sighed, pulling out a handkerchief and drying off Gustave's tears.

"Gustave…you should not have run off like that," he said.

Gustave gulped back a few tears. "I didn't go far," he murmured. "I could still see you…"

His father was silent for a moment. "You frightened me," Erik confessed at last. "I could not find you."

"I was right there."

"But I didn't know that!" Erik stood sharply, moving away. "I couldn't see you, Gustave, I was the one who was scared because you had run off!" He felt like breaking something but some newly-grown sense in him told him he could not, at least not while Gustave remained awake.

Gustave stared at the ground. "I'm sorry."

Erik moved back to him, grabbing onto his shoulder. "Gustave…" He took a breath. "Gustave…I cannot lose you… not after Christine…" He dropped his gaze. "You ran away for days because of me. I can't let anything happen to you again… not like that…"

Gustave crawled into his father's lap and leaned into his body, ignoring Erik's sudden stiffening.

"I won't run off, again," said Gustave, voice muffled in Erik's shirt.

Erik laughed helplessly. "You're a boy. I should expect you to run away at times…to disobey me." He shook his head; the entire concept of someone being disobedient to him was foreign, after years of having everybody under his rule. "But next time…perhaps try and think before you act."

Gustave nodded into Erik's clothing. He looked up and reached for the white mask.

In a flash Erik had Gustave's arm locked into his grip. He hissed, "What do you think you are doing?"

"Take – taking off the – the mask," Gustave squeaked, resisting the urge to struggle.

Erik released him. "Why?"

"I don't know…" Gustave lowered his hand. Then, more quickly than Erik thought the boy could move, he whipped off the mask and went scampering behind the piano.

"Gustave-!" Erik started to bellow, then stopped when his son's giggles reached his ears.

"Father!" The boy was actually waving it at him, oblivious to his father's rage. Erik snarled something and launched himself at Gustave, only to see his son go scurrying under the piano, still grinning at him.

He was playing with him, Erik thought.

"Father!" Gustave skipped around the sofa, watching Erik stand in stunned realization. "Father?" he queried. He held up the mask, feeling like a bullfighter waving a red cape.

Erik smiled slightly. "You think you can escape me?" He dove at the boy, laughing as Gustave easily dodged him. "Come here, Gustave! Give it back!"

"No!" Gustave shouted over his shoulder, skipping to the door. "I'm going to keep it forever, Father, and you're never going to wear it again!"

"Oh, really?"

"Yes! Not even when you go outside!" crowed Gustave, turning around.

Erik had disappeared.

Gustave paused, lowering his arm, swiveling his head in every direction.

Too late he heard movement behind him, and gave an embarrassingly high-pitched scream as Erik lifted him up and snatched back his mask.

"How did you do that?" Gustave exclaimed, still caught in his father's grasp.

Erik held the mask out of reach. "You should not turn your back on your enemy, my foolish son." He started to put it back on but found Gustave's hand reaching out to stop him.

"Don't put it back on," Gustave implored him. "Please, Father?"

He sighed. "Gustave, it is kind of you to try and convince me that I do not frighten you, but do not draw it on for so long, or I might start to believe you." He replaced it over his face, only for Gustave to grab it back off. He considered dropping the boy from his grip, but only for a moment.

"I am not frightened of you," said Gustave stubbornly, hiding the mask behind his back. "Father, you should not have to wear it at home."

"And why not?"

"Because there is nobody around but you and me. And I am not scared."

Erik moved closer, resting a hesitant hand on Gustave's shoulder. There was a hope rising in his face, one Gustave could see his father was desperately trying to suppress.

"Are you sure, Gustave?" Erik asked quietly. "You do not have to lie to me. Even your mother was repulsed by my face."

Gustave shook his head. "I'm not." He looked at him, feeling neither fright nor disgust nor even pity. It was simply a part of his father's face.

Erik sighed. "Very well. I will leave the mask off here." He set it down on the piano, staring at it disquietedly. Gustave moved towards him and took his hand.

"Music?"

Erik laughed, just a bit. "All right. _Then_ to your studies."

* * *

Erik pulled the corners of the blankets and flung it up into the air, holding on to the edges. It billowed and smoothed, but right before he let it land on the bed he saw a dark shape scurry under and bury itself in the pillows. The blanket thus fell upon Gustave's curled body.

"One day," said Erik sternly, "you will have to sleep in your own bed."

Gustave smiled sweetly at him, unafraid, before burrowing like a little mouse into his father's bed. Erik sighed, pushed Gustave over, and lay down, lying stiffly on his back. It felt odd to have someone so near him while he slept, to feel the warmth of another, smaller body next to his. He moved to take off his mask and wig, then remembered that he no longer wore it. It was another strange thing, to feel his own skin instead of a piece of leather.

When the room was covered in darkness, Erik felt Gustave move closer to him.

"Goodnight, Father."

He rolled over so that he was facing his son, resting a hand on top of the boy's head. "Goodnight, Gustave. Sleep well."

"Father?"

He paused in the middle of pulling the blankets around himself. "Yes?"

"I love you."

Silence from Erik.

"Father?"

"I love you too, Gustave."

* * *

Many apologies for the longer wait. Anyone who has been to my profile and found my Tumblr (or maybe they went to my Tumblr and found my FanFiction, or maybe they found both and only just connected the two together) will know about the very (very, very, very) minor furor that went on for a day or so because of... hm... a couple Youtube videos, Twitter and Facebook, and a certain actor. Or something like that. Anyway, between my super angry pissed-offed-ness at people and extreme paranoia and the fact that classes have started again, the days just flew by! And I kind of forgot about this chapter. Sorry about that. Again.

That being said, there's one more chapter (an epilogue), and then a chapter of "deleted scenes" - stuff that got cut out, alternate chapters, that kind of thing. One of them includes a chapter that was SUPPOSED to go after this one, but didn't. So look out for that.


	22. Chapter 22

FINALLY. Took me long enough.

Last actual chapter. The next is a bunch of deleted scenes.

Enjoy!

Chapter 22

One and a half years.

One and a half years it took for him claw his way out of grief and despair. To be able to lift his head up and breathe without thinking that it was one lungful of air Christine would never have. To be able to open his eyes without seeing her around the corner, to listen without expecting to hear her soft voice laughing from the piano, to move without expecting her own hand to take his.

One and a half years, and Raoul was back at Coney Island, ready to face the memories, to find the boy he had raised and whom he had given up.

Coney Island had changed, though unlike Raoul it was likely for the better. The port the ship had docked in had a new covering of wood, the sides of which were surrounded by shops upon shops upon shops, all hawking various foods, souvenirs, toys, and so much more. The planks glittered in the sun, the dark sheen contrasting with the blue of the ocean just beyond – obviously newly built.

He took a carriage into the heart of Coney Island, unable to keep himself from admiring the city once more. It seemed to sparkle back the sunlight that danced upon the waves – all new, modern, ready for the surge of tourists that came every day. There were tiny decorative shops and restaurants, concert halls and stadiums built to seat thousands, and towering hotels with tiny rooms for those who could not afford better and luxurious suites for the wealthy. But dwarfing them all was the spectacle of Phantasma, its Ferris wheel soaring into the sky, the new rides carrying the screams of excited riders all the way to the pier – or perhaps that was only Raoul's memory. Perhaps the only dark blot on the island was a ruined property, what looked like a former park, now burned to the ground and completely desolate.

He could have taken another street, yet for some reason he allowed himself to walk down to that same concert hall where Christine had given her last and best performance. It alone seemed unchanged, and he wondered at that. Had the Phantom – Erik left? Was he hiding within its walls? Or did he preserve it, in some fit of guilt or sadness? Raoul thought he might have done the third. Even staring at the building seemed to bring back Christine, her pure, crystal clear voice echoing again in his mind.

"Ticket sir? We have a spectacular performance tonight."

Raoul blinked at the squat little ticket-seller. He started to back away, to say that he did not want any more memories invading him – then found himself replying, "Of course."

"Wonderful!" the man beamed. "Would you like to sit up front? See that stars with your very own eyes? Or perhaps a balcony seat – a view of the theater?"

"A box," said Raoul, pulling out his money. "Your most expensive one."

The man shook his little head. "Ah no, sir, that is already taken – but there are other boxes still available, and just as good."

A taken box? And the grandest one of all, no less… Suddenly Raoul knew he had to see the show – though not necessarily for the performance. He answered, "Of course. The one closest to the other, actually."

"Very good, sir. Here you are, and have a lovely afternoon."

* * *

Where were they?

He had sat for an hour in his place, watching people of all classes file in. Now most had settled down, were quieting their talk. There were only a few moments before the show was to start.

Perhaps this had been a silly mistake. There were plenty of people in this tiny island who could afford the terrifically high price of a private box. Likely he had come here for nothing – after all, this was the former Phantom he was thinking about, a reclusive, possessive wretch of a man. He was surprised Erik had not burned down his park (or all of Coney Island) after Christine had died. Perhaps he had grabbed Gustave and fled to some secluded place, to live out their lives alone –

And just as he was thinking this, the lights dimmed – but not before Raoul, still sticking his head out over the balcony, saw the outline of two figures, one tall, the other much smaller, enter the box next to his. He craned his neck out over the balcony but by then it was too late. The performance had started, and everywhere except the stage was cloaked in darkness. Raoul did not see much of it, as he was too occupied trying to catch another glimpse of the occupants of the other box.

When intermission came, Raoul immediately resumed his spying, but he was disappointed. The seats in the other box were quite far back, enough that nobody could see the occupants. Raoul knew that this was probably a deliberate design on Erik's part. It did not lighten his mood. He considered simply leaving his own box and knocking on the door to that one, but feared he would be punjabbed, or worse. Yet when the lights went down, he cursed himself for not having the bravery to confront the man again. As the performance neared its end he stood at the door, ready to rush out and catch the two before they could leave.

Somehow he was too late again; he rushed out in time to catch the swirl of a black cloak disappearing down the stairs to the ground floor. Swearing in a very way unbecoming a Vicomte, he ran down the same flight of stairs. He was greeted with a mob of paparazzi, their gigantic cameras blinding him with their flashes. The few seconds he took to clear his vision were enough to completely separate him from Erik and Gustave – and the two from each other.

"It's Mr. Y!"

"And the boy!"

A reporter shoved his way into Gustave's face. "Young man! What can you tell us about Mr. Y?"

"Are you his son?"

"Moron! Young sir, it is more likely you are his ward – how true-"

"His ward! Don't make me-"

"There are rumors he is leaving everything to you – what can you-"

Raoul moved forward to help his son but only found himself shoved back towards the stairs. Rude Americans. He could no longer even see Gustave anymore –

"ENOUGH!"

From out of some dark corner of the room came Erik, the half of his face that Raoul could see livid with anger. The mob moved aside, some not fast enough for Erik, who sent them sprawling with one sweep of his arm. He plunged his arm into the center of the crowd and seemed to scoop Gustave out, wrapping his cloak around the boy.

Somehow, this did not deter the reporters.

"It's Mr. Y!"

"Mr. Y! Over here!"

"What is the boy to you?"

"Is it true you have left everything to him?

"Mr. Y! What do you have to say about the destruction of Steeple-"

They clustered around Erik who moved through and past them as if they were completely beneath him, sparing no one a glance. The only person he looked at was Gustave, whom he kept clinging to his side.

Then one came a little too close.

"Mr. Y! May we have a picture of the boy?" The intrepid, stupidly brave reporter hoisted his camera up and pointed it straight at Gustave.

Erik whirled. The camera hit the marble floor with a shattering crash, the fragile machinery smashed into bits. The reporter could only gawk at the mess.

"No pictures of the boy," hissed Erik, his voice managing to carry all the way to Raoul, still pushed back against the foot of the stairs. Then he turned and was out the door, the journalists thundering in his wake after quickly removing the unlucky cameraman from Raoul's sight.

When Raoul finally managed to stumble out, the paparazzi were scattered about, muttering in dissatisfaction. Raoul sighed. He had missed them; his best chance at speaking to Gustave again blown apart. He could spend only a few days in Coney Isle, but he resolved to use them wisely. He knew, for one thing, that Erik and Gustave were here, had lived here for over a year together. He could see that Erik was… protective of the boy. That brought a snort; Erik had been quite protective of Christine, but that had not had good results.

A year and a half of grieving had slowly given way to determination to see the life his son had taken. Did Erik indulge the boy, or was he overly strict? Did the man swaddle Gustave or completely neglect him? Was Gustave sheltered, or allowed freedom? Raoul did not know; he had trusted Christine's dying judgment and his son's wishes, but he knew so little of this former Phantom… and he did not know if the man's overwhelming love for Christine would necessarily extend to the child of their union.

It was a surprise to find himself in quieter streets away from the concert hall. He ought to have taken a carriage, but it was much more peaceful walking alone, passing darkened alleyways –

A clatter from one of those alleys drew him up short. He had heard rumors and stories of dangerous sorts of people on this island – muggers and cutthroats and the like… It would have been much safer, not to mention quicker, if he had chosen the carriage –

He had backed almost around the corner when he heard familiar voices and saw two figures stumble out of the alley: the same two Raoul had seen in the box next to his.

"-lost those parasites…do you think I could banish them from the island?"

"Father?"

"Harassment, staking out the Aerie, constantly distracting my workers…those are more than enough offenses, I think…"

"Father!" The smaller figure – Gustave – tugged at the other's sleeve. "What did you think of the performance? I thought it was lovely. The violins, especially."

The person Raoul instantly knew to be Erik tucked the boy close to his side and mused, "The singing was not particularly awful, but I must disagree on the violins. There was one in particular that was off the entire performance – it must be Claudin's, he's been having trouble with his fingers-"

"I didn't notice anything wrong…"

"-must get rid of him, before he ruins another performance." Erik paused, head tilting to look down at his son. "With pension, of course."

"Of course." And Raoul could almost hear Gustave's grin.

The two continued down the alley, Raoul shadowing them, listening to their conversation. Gustave chattered on about the performance, skipping ahead as he spoke.

"Do you think it would be better if the middle portion were set in minor key? Without the trumpets, too?"

"The entire thing? No, I think not."

"Well, not the entire thing – but some of it!" Gustave swung around a light pole before dancing back to Erik. "Could you give me the score, Father, so I could try it? Please?"

"I will try, Gustave," said Erik, ruffling the boy's hair. Gustave laughed and brushed him aside, running on ahead.

"What time is it, Father?"

"It is probably around eleven. Stop running on ahead now, and come back here."

Gustave came trotting back; Erik took his hand in his own and led him onward.

"Father, when I write some music, will you have the concert show it?"

"Of course, Gustave."

"But… is that unfair? What if there are other people with better music? Shouldn't they have a chance?"

"I do not think there is anyone who can write music better than you, Gustave – no, that is the truth, do not deny it – but if there is such a person, then I will gladly let them have my concert hall first."

The two stopped at the edge of the street. Erik turned about and Raoul dove into another alleyway.

"The carriage was at the end of – ah, here we are…"

Only when their footsteps had echoed away did Raoul venture out again. He wasn't sure why he was hiding. Fear of Erik's wrath, he supposed – he did not think the presence of his son would stop the man from attacking him. Or maybe, the fear of seeing his son again, that his year and a half away from Gustave had permanently severed their relationship.

"Father?"

"Go on ahead now, Gustave."

Gustave skipped ahead, stopping under the glow of a street lamp to wait for Erik. When his father had caught up with him, Gustave ran towards him and grabbed his hand, though Erik continued to push him gently forward.

"Where is the carriage?" asked Gustave, peering around.

Erik pointed and said, "Just up ahead. Go on…"

"Where?"

Erik sighed. "There. See it? Miss Fleck is driving-"

"Oh, I see." Gustave ran ahead, looking back over his shoulder. "Father! Are you coming?"

"Of course, of course…"

Raoul crept forward as Erik followed his son, squinting for the carriage. He was having as much trouble as his son had finding it, and with good reason. The carriage was entirely black, and Raoul only saw it by the way it blocked out the background and the lights with its inky outline.

"Father!"

"I am coming, Gustave," Erik answered. "Be patient…"

Raoul moved forward quicker, not sure what he was to do – confront Erik, or call his son's name? Perhaps that was best – or maybe he should come into the light. All he was sure of was that it was best to catch Gustave's attention first and not Erik's –

Then, when he was perhaps ten feet away, Erik turned and whipped out his arm.

For the second time in his life, Raoul felt the silky strangulation of the Punjab lasso around his neck. And for the second time he heard Madame Giry's echoing warning in his mind before he was being pulled forward, hitting the ground, and dragged forward, choking.

"Father!"

"Get into the carriage, Gustave!" shouted Erik. He snapped his arm back to haul the mysterious stalker to his feet. "Did you think I had not noticed you?" he hissed, flicking his wrist again. The victim at the end of his noose made a harsh strangling noise that only enraged Erik more. "Do you think you are going to have a painless death? No, good sir, when I am finished with you, you will be begging for – oh."

And Raoul was dropped to the ground, the rope loosening itself from his windpipe. When his lungs were filled with blessed air and his vision removed of black spots, Raoul saw Erik staring down at him with utter disdain and loathing, and wondered what had caused the man to spare his life.

"Father?"

Erik whirled around and snarled, "I said to stay in the carriage!"

Raoul, still gasping on the ground, nevertheless heard the note of panic in Erik's shout, and wondered why.

"But Father-"

"No buts! Get in there – Fleck! Take him back – No!"

Gustave had run out, weaving his little body at Erik's side. Erik grabbed him, made to hurl him into the carriage, but the boy grasped his father's arm and gaped at Raoul.

"Fa-" Gustave cut himself off. "Raoul?" he said instead, the word sounding foreign to him.

Erik cursed and grabbed Gustave, but the boy struggled back.

"No, I want to see-"

"No." The menace in Erik's voice was all the more disturbing for its quietness. "Get into the carriage and stay there."

If Raoul had been spoken to like that, he would have started running in the opposite direction. But the other half of his mind was preoccupied with Gustave – how could the boy bear to live with a father who spoke to him in such a way? At that moment, Raoul wanted nothing more than to scoop Gustave away from Erik and drag him onto the fastest steamer bound for Europe.

Gustave pulled his father about until Erik's back was to Raoul. Raoul himself managed to get to his knees, throat still burning with every breath he took. The two were too far to hear, but he could see Gustave speaking to Erik, reaching out to touch his father's arm – and then Erik turning around and pushing the boy towards Raoul, face inscrutable.

Raoul stood, trying to look like the father he had once been, an effect shattered when Gustave tilted his head and asked, "Why is there a rope around your neck?"

"Oh-" Raoul would have said something like, 'Your dear father was trying to kill me for the second time', but the sudden, dangerous glint in Erik's eyes warned him not to. Instead, he answered lamely, "I found it…and I wanted to bring it home."

Gustave nodded, accepting his explanation with a little too much ease. Raoul threw the rope off, glad for something to do. The tension between them was unbearable; the boy was standing just a little too far from him, close enough to speak yet far enough that Raoul could not reach for him without having to take a few steps of his own. And looming behind them was Erik, utterly still.

"Gustave…" Raoul sighed. "Are you well? Does he treat you right?"

Gustave nodded, smiling brightly. Raoul looked him over for any signs of lying, of hiding, staring into the boy's eyes. Either the boy was a good liar, or… He looked back at Erik. The man was a statue, but his gaze remained focused on Gustave, not deviating from the boy, as if his entire life depended on keeping his son in sight.

"Does he love you?" asked Raoul, half-hoping, half-dreading the answer.

There was no hesitation from Gustave as he nodded. Raoul tried not to let his disappointment show, but knew some sign of it had crossed his face, and felt instantly guilty. He knew he ought to be relieved, but part of him had desperately needed some excuse to take Gustave with him.

"You are happy with him?" he asked quietly.

Gustave said, "Yes."

"Then…I will leave. It's all I wanted to know, after all…" He stood. "If you ever need anything…write to me…I will be there." He swallowed, the action strangely difficult. "Even though…though you are not my son… I love you. I have always loved you."

Gustave nodded solemnly, then moved forward and wrapped his arms around Raoul's waist. Raoul gripped the boy tightly, feeling a hard lump rise in his throat. He looked back to Erik and saw the man turn away from them.

"I think you should go back to…your father," said Raoul quietly, releasing Gustave.

The boy nodded. "Goodbye, Raoul."

"Goodbye, Gustave. Take care."

The boy turned, looked back one, then rejoined his father near the carriage. Raoul thought he saw Erik start when Gustave touched his arm, but it may have been a trick of the shadows. Anyhow, the two did not look back at Raoul, and Gustave was soon loaded into the carriage.

Erik closed the door, hesitated, then moved slightly towards Raoul. The two men, once rivals, eyed each other once more.

At last, Erik spoke:

"Keep the rope."

He walked around the carriage and joined his son inside, and soon they were gone.

* * *

Gustave had to be carried up the tower, his head cradled against Erik's. It had been a long night – the surprise announcement that they were going to see a performance, for one thing (Erik had been saving tickets for a long time), then the mad rush to get dressed, to get in the carriage, to arrive at the concert hall at precisely the right moment, when most of the audience had already sat down but before the performance itself could start…and then the horrible encounter at the end of it all…

Erik started to move towards the bedroom but Gustave suddenly sprang awake, head smacking Erik's chin.

"I'm awake! I'm-" He yawned. "I'm awake, Father!"

"Yes, I can see that," said Erik, rubbing his chin. He dropped the boy onto the floor. "Nevertheless, it is late and far past your bedtime. Go wash up and get into bed."

"But you said we could stay up-"

"I've changed my mind. Go."

Gustave moved hesitantly away, still watching his father. One and a half years of living with Erik had given Gustave an intuitive sense of his father's moods, and he knew that, at that moment, Erik did not want to speak. He wondered why, wondered if it had to do with meeting Raoul. Gustave had no idea of the hatred the two men had bore for one another, Erik still choosing fit not to tell him. But he had guessed.

When he emerged, hair wet and dressed in pajamas, he hopped up on the piano top. Erik was standing in front of his large angel stature, waving his hand gently to watch the lights change.

Gustave whined, "Father…"

Erik moved over, looking over his son.

"Ready?"

Gustave nodded, then observed, "You still have your mask on."

Erik touched it. "Yes."

"Take it off," demanded Gustave.

Erik reached for it and turned around. Off it came, along with his wig. He turned back, a trace of fear running across his face. But Gustave only smiled and reached for him. Erik grabbed him up, holding him tight.

"Love you, Father," murmured Gustave, head muffled in Erik's shirt.

"I love you, too." He put Gustave down. "Go on, to bed."

"My bed?"

"Yes, your bed." Erik had finally managed to kick his son out of his own room, manfully resisting Gustave's piteous whimpers. But, "I will join you in a moment."

Gustave was tucked into bed when Erik came in. He smiled as his father sat beside him.

"Tell me a story!" he demanded.

Erik sighed. "What story?" The two had gone through what felt like every fairytale in Erik's voluminous bookshelf, forcing Erik to make up his own.

But tonight would be different. "Tell me about how you and Mother."

Erik narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

"Because." Gustave smiled winningly.

His father sighed. "Very well. Where should I start?"

"When you met her. At the Paris Opera House." He snuggled in. "She said she was visited by an Angel of Music."

"Not exactly." Erik paused. He had steadfastly refused to say anything about his earlier years, even though Gustave had begged and hounded him constantly for the tale. But the first few months, the most idyllic he had ever known, would provide a romantic enough tale for his young son.

"Very well." He watched Gustave make himself comfortable. "It was over eleven, almost twelve years ago. Your mother was a young chorus girl, one of many. And I…I was living in the opera house, when one day, I ventured out and heard her sing…."

_The End_


	23. Chapter 23

Welcome to the stuff that got cut out, edited out, or wasn't used at all! Some of the stuff is merely 'Wow, I'm glad I deleted this crap' stuff, while others fall into the 'Oh man, I really don't want to cut it out but I have to' category.

Deleted Scenes

_Alternate version of Chapter 20_

_This was the original version of Chapter 20 for quite a long time, and I am very, very glad it got cut out. If it had stayed I probably would have hated it later and not wanted anyone to ever read this story ever - rather like my first Bat Boy story. Anyway, it was a very climatic and action-packed chapter, but ultimately I wanted Gustave to go back to Erik of his own free will and not have the "Oh, he saved me, guess I'm going to stay with him now" mentality that pervades a lot of fiction I won't name. The only thing I slightly miss is that the idea of a fire is grounded in history; several parks did in fact have huge fires, which I researched and based Phantasma's fire on._

_Also, this chapter probably explains why I, say, mentioned that the rollercoaster was being repaired (electricity) or why there were construction workers around (rebuilding the park). I also had this thing where Gustave was scarred, being more like his daddy, and mentioning said scarring throughout the rest of the story, blah blah blah symbolism... but yeah, also cut out. It's for the better, trust me._

* * *

Sometime while Gustave was thinking, one of the electrical lights suffered a malfunction. The wires and bulbs shot out small sparks of electricity, and these landed on the rickety wooden structure of the rollercoaster. It had been a particularly dry week, and the wooden boards were furthermore coated with an incredibly flammable substance. In minutes, the entire structure was aflame. The only mercy was that no one had been using it when the fire started.

The fire spread quickly, leaping from the ride to the stands, the tables, the tents…

Soon, Phantasma was engulfed.

"Fire! Fire!"

"Oh my God! Oh my God!"

"Get out! RUN!"

Pounding of steps outside…screams…

"Water! Get some water!"

A splash. Hissing.

"It's not working!"

"It's too big!"

"Run! Run, now!"

Crackling…breaking…snapping…

"Master! Master!"

Erik flew down the steps to the door. As soon as he flung it open he saw – his entire park aflame.

"Master!" Fleck screamed. "Fire!"

He threw her aside, already running towards the flames. "Call the police! Call the fire marshal! Promise them anything, call in any favors I am owed, but get them here!"

Fleck cried out, for he was running into the park. "Master! No! Don't go in there! You can't-!"

But he was gone.

* * *

"Gustave!"

The smoke was heavy in the air.

"Gustave!"

He ran to the rollercoaster, around a swirling ball of fire that had once been a food stand. The orange flames spat sparks out, then, as if sensing him nearby, roared towards him. He felt the heat on his skin and instinctively dived to the ground, rolling. Winded, Erik, clambered back up and continued running, though the sweat was running down his face and the heat growing ever more oppressive.

"Gustave!"

He could not even recognize his own park in the fire…

"GUSTAVE!"

There was nobody left. He was alone.

Him and his son.

He dove through the smoke and landed in what remained of the rollercoaster. It was in ruins, aflame. The entire ride had toppled as the fire consumed its planks; there was nothing left to even suggest what it had once been.

"No…" He crawled towards it, throat hoarse from screaming. "NO! Gustave!"

He scrambled to his feet again, intending to go through the entire structure to find his son, dead or alive…his fingers were about to grasp the first piece of wood, blackened and crumbly, when he heard a scream.

He whirled around.

"Gustave!"

* * *

Gustave spun about. All around him was fire and flame, their heat searing him. He ran in one direction and was met with the thick, heavy cloth of the tent, on fire too, trapping him – he turned and ran elsewhere and was met with an inferno, a blazing wall that forced him back –

"Gustave!"

He screamed, regretting it immediately. The smoke was all around him, blinding him, burning his eyes. It roiled down his throat until it was parch, and his screams could not be heard.

"Gustave!"

He wasn't sure if he was imagining the voice or not. Again he turned, running to his left, fleeing there. At that moment, one of the poles holding the tent upright shattered. With a terrible crash the wooden bracing fell in front of him, only barely missing the boy. Wooden splinters flew through the air, disappearing into the flames.

"Gustave!"

He could not have imagined that. He turned, screaming. "Help!"

Above him the tent walls were flapping incessantly as their holdings gave way, one by one. Over the crackling, roaring flames, Gustave could hear more thunderous crashes, more creaks and slaps of the cloth against one another as the tent started to collapse….

"Gustave!"

Erik…

"Gustave! Where are you?"

Gustave shouted at the top of his lungs, "I'm here! I'm here! Help-"

The tent – only one part of it – collapsed, coming down. Gustave screamed, running forward heedlessly into the flames before him…he knocked his arm against the collapsed pole and felt the fire burn through his shirt and sear his skin and his breath rip through his throat, and there was no air to breathe as he ran, but that was nothing to the agony of the flames all around him –

Then he was gloriously free, though he knew he was hurt. He could feel the slow increase of pain as his adrenaline faded –

A roaring behind him made him turn.

"Gustave!"

That was the last he heard before the tent came down upon him.

* * *

"Gustave! Gustave! Gustave!"

Erik sped through the flaming tent. He could hear the boy, so close, so nearby…

He heard something snap – a rope, he would later realize, breaking loose – and then his mind was one blank of horror as he saw the roof of the tent come down, come closer –

And then he heard a scream…

Erik would never be able to recall what happened later. He only remembered noises, flashes of images, bits and pieces of memory – the tent moving like a flag in the wind…then the wind in his ears…the smoke rising before him…

And later, innumerable seconds later, clutching Gustave to his chest.

Then there was only the stinging pain in his hands and his own forced gasping…and at last, the entrance, and the ground rushing up to meet him as he collapsed.

* * *

A cough. Erik opened his eyes.

There was a heavy weight on his chest. He shifted slightly and felt it move.

Gustave.

He sat up suddenly, grabbing at the boy. It was so dark. How long had he been laying here? Long enough for the fire to have gone out? No…it was still burning, in the distance. But the lights of Phantasma were out, and there were only the stars and moon to illuminate him.

"Gustave…Gustave…" Erik patted the boy's cheek. His fingers came away wet. His heart started thudding in his chest. It could not be blood… He touched again, gently, and felt peeling skin and flesh…Gustave moaned.

Burns, said Erik's coldly logical mind. He was badly burned. A doctor, he needed a doctor right now… Erik hoisted the boy up, clutching his body to himself. That one resolution was the only thought in his mind, going on an endless loop that drowned out any other coherent thoughts…

Even Coney Island had to have doctors! Erik forced his mind to think, to remember.

Yes, there was one, though he was streets away, far from the noise of Phantasma. But it would have to do. He ran, clutching the boy now. Gustave's head was on his shoulder, lolling, mouth close to his ear; every few steps Erik would feel the boy's breath on him. Sometimes he would also hear a moan.

He skidded to a halt and slammed his palm on the door, hard. When it didn't open fast enough Erik almost punched it down.

"Open up! God damn you to hell, open-!"

The door opened a crack.

"I have an injured boy!" Erik shouted, hoisting Gustave up. "He's been burned. Can you help?"

The doctor appeared at the door, holding a candle up to them. His eyes widened upon seeing the two.

"Burns, you say?" asked the doctor.

Erik growled, "Yes, burns! And God knows what else! Now stop standing there or I-"

"My apologies!" The doctor quickly stood aside, still staring at them. "It is late, that is all…I am not used to seeing patients at this hour…"

"You are a doctor, are you not?" snarled Erik, still holding Gustave. "Get used to it!"

The doctor, a stooped over man in his fifties, grunted assent. "Put him on there," he muttered, indicating a worn out old table. Erik did as told, shushing Gustave when he whimpered.

The doctor moved slowly around to get his medical bag, too slowly for Erik's comfort, who slammed the bag so hard he heard something shatter within.

"You are wasting time!" shouted Erik. "My son is wounded!"

"Learn some patience," the doctor snapped. "The boy is burned, yes, but it is, fortunately, nothing that won't heal in time." He tore open the ash-blackened shirt Gustave was wearing, then the pants. "It seems confined mostly to his left side," the doctor continued. "Above the waist, too." Gustave tried to move; Erik stopped him. The doctor examined the burns closely. In the light, Erik could finally see the extent to which they ran – most along Gustave's exposed arm and shoulder, with lighter patches on his chest, waist, neck, and face.

"They are not serious," said the doctor. "Though if you could tell me what happened…?"

Erik ground his teeth; what did it matter what the damn cause was? But he said, "Some…cloth caught on fire. It fell on him. That is all."

"Cloth?" the doctor repeated. "What do you mean-"

"I mean cloth!" Erik raged. "Now do your work and stop interfering in my business!"

"The boy's health is both our business, sir!" the doctor answered sharply. He wet some rags and placed them over the burns; from the bag he pulled out familiar white gauze bandages and started to unroll and tear off strips. "There is not much I can do. Keep him warm, covered with blankets, and feed him plenty of liquids. If he was caught in some 'cloth', as you say, then there will be no risk of smoke-"

"Smoke?" interrupted Erik. "What about the smoke?"

"He may have inhaled some. You will know when he starts coughing, bringing up phlegm." The doctor wound the bandage around Gustave's arm. "Nothing for that. Just let him bring it all up, however he wants." He tied off the bandage and snipped off another.

"Is there medicine? Anything you can give him?" asked Erik, trying to modulate his tone and failing. He himself was running frantically through all the medical treatments he had learned, and nothing, Oriental or Occidental, had ever been developed to accelerate the healing of burns.

"There is the hospital-"

"He is more likely to die in that hospital than if he were at home!" sneered Erik.

"Morphine, opium, may dull the pain-"

Erik turned away in disgust. "Addicting substances. Best think of another solution, 'doctor'."

The doctor spread his hands in deprecation, ignoring the slur. "There is really nothing else." He cleared his throat, eyes flying to Erik's face. "And it is not the boy I am worried about," he continued, tying off the last bandage. He placed some more over Gustave's face. "It is you. You are injured as well."

Erik only spared a momentary gaze at his own arms, burned as he ran through the park. "I need nothing."

The doctor followed Erik's gaze and frowned. "I can see that. I was speaking about your face." He indicated the right side of his own.

Erik's hand flew to his face. His mask was gone.

Quickly he went over the past few hours. Surely he could not have forgotten it back at the Aerie. No, he was sure he had it then… he must have lost it while searching the park. Possibly he had whisked it off in the flames, and it was gone… And how many people had seen him without it? Nobody, he thought frantically, the streets had been empty… and it didn't matter, none would connect him with Mr. Y…

"Sir?" queried the doctor. "Your face? Am I correct in assuming that it is no injury?"

Erik covered that portion, turning until the doctor could only see the good side. He had forgotten how terrible it felt, to be exposed to the world's uncaring eyes.

"Sir?" repeated the doctor.

Erik suddenly swooped down on Gustave, scooping up the boy in his arms. Holding the shaking body tightly, he strode towards the door, keeping his face in shadow.

"Thank you for the help. I will make sure you are paid."

"Sir! I do not think you should move the boy when he is so injured! Perhaps time here, or at a local hospital, would be best!"

"I will take care of the boy myself!" said Erik, not bothering to turn around. "You will receive payment in the morning. Good night!"

He flung open the door.

"Sir!" The doctor had regained his senses and was running after him. "Sir!"

Erik pulled Gustave up against his chest and disappeared into the night.

* * *

Erik was shaking by the time he reached the Aerie, not only from carrying Gustave on top of his own injuries, but from having his face seen again. It was the first time this had occurred in ten years, outside of Christine and Gustave. He hated being stared at.

The door to the tower had been left open; Erik closed it and locked it behind him, then flew up the flights of stairs. It was a relief to be back in his old home. It looked normal, unchanged since he had left it. The same could not be said of Phantasma. Erik, of course, did not give a damn about any of that.

He lay Gustave down on his bed and stood indecisively over him. The boy had fallen into a restless sleep. There were bandages running up his entire left arm and shoulder, part of his torso and neck on the same side, and over his face. He had to be in pain; he kept turning over, and Erik had to push him flat on his back, over and over.

First, he had to retrieve a mask. He could not have his son waking up and seeing his mess of a face. There was a spare in his room. Afterward he was covered, he dragged in a chair to the bedroom, trying to be as quiet, yet as fast, as possible. Even a few moments of leaving Gustave alone made his heart rate increase in fear, but he did not want to wake him either. Pulling up the chair, Erik sat down beside the bed, determined to wait out Gustave's healing.

He had forgotten about the letter.

* * *

The first week, Gustave developed a fever. His skin was so hot Erik could not stand to touch him for more than a few seconds. Gustave spent many nights moaning, tossing about. His words were incoherent, though Erik caught the words 'Mother' on many occasions. Or perhaps it was 'monster'. Erik did not care to find out.

He did as the doctor had ordered. Gustave was rarely conscious, and Erik took the few opportunities he had to force down as many liquids as possible. It was not too difficult after a while; Gustave seemed constantly thirsty and would drink almost too fast for Erik's comfort. When he could he would sometimes feed him some pieces of fruit, a bit of candy, honey; sweet things for energy.

At one point, Erik was afraid his son was dying. That day, Gustave had not moved at all, and his breathing had become quick, short gasps for breath. When Erik nervously put his fingers to the boy's chest, he had felt a heartbeat as thin and fluttering as a bird's. That night, certain his son was about to die, Erik had wrapped Gustave in a blanket and held him to his own body, waiting for the inevitable.

That was another time he would not remember too well. Perhaps it was for the best; perhaps his mind knew that if he remembered it, he would not be able to live under the strain of 'what if's' and 'what might have happened'. But he knew there was a moment when Gustave was completely still in his arms and Erik had curled over the boy and felt his mind break under the grief and the guilt.

Then he had whispered into the boy's ear, constantly, not caring what he said. It might have been a prayer, it might have been pleading, begging for forgiveness, it might have been sobs…he did not know. For hours it seemed he did only that, clutching Gustave's body to himself.

But that tenacity Gustave had shown as an infant was still with him, and he continued to cling to life. Hours passed, the boy alternately shivering and sweating in Erik's arms. Erik himself floated in a half-daze, sometimes seeing his son, sometimes seeing other things…images from the past, mostly, dreams of a future that could have been… At one point, he found himself opening his eyes suddenly. In a panic, he had checked Gustave, knowing it would be utterly fitting for his son to have died while he was sleeping, but the boy was still alive. He had promised to remain awake then…and to force himself to remain that way, he had hummed mindlessly, not caring anymore for music…

When morning broke, so did Gustave's fever.

He was still sick, but no longer so bad as the last few days. His breathing slowed, deepened, his heart rate too; his skin no longer burned, though it still felt hot. Sometimes, Erik would even see Gustave open his eyes, just a bit, before closing them again. Sometimes he even spoke. Once, Erik heard,

"Mother…"

Erik swallowed, tried to pat the boy's sweaty hair back. "Christine – I mean, your mother…she's not here."

The boy blinked, eyes bright and glazed. "Father…"

Erik held his hand. "Your father's not here, either," he whispered.

Gustave suddenly sat up and coughed, a wet one that brought up a great deal of phlegm. Erik wiped away the mess on his son's mouth and left to get some clean sheets. Along the way, he examined the handkerchief he had used to clean up Gustave. There were many black specks in the mucus Gustave had coughed up. Erik tossed the cloth away, hearing his son coughing wetly once more. He was awoken from his naps throughout the next few days as Gustave's body fought to rid itself of the soot and ash it had accumulated.

When he returned, Gustave was feverishly crawling to the end of the bed. Erik ran the last few feet and pulled his son back from the edge.

"Gustave-!" he started to say, until the boy, using his last reserves of strength, pulled free and vomited onto the floor.

After cleaning up another mess, Erik returned with some water and an apple, carved into slices.

"Gustave…" He hesitated, unable to get a good grip on his son from the edge of the large bed, but not wanting to sit next to him either. "Gustave, have something to drink." He sat down on the bed – only to help his son – and let him take the water in little sips. Then came the apple slices, one by one, showing a patience he had never displayed except when he was teaching Christine.

"Father…"

"Shh…it's me, it's Erik…"

Gustave blinked at him before closing his eyes and curling up in a ball.

Another time, Gustave awoke and tried to crawl from his bed. Erik, only half-awake, almost gave himself whiplash from the speed he sat up in his chair.

"Gustave!" He scooped the boy back up and put him in bed. "Don't move. You need rest."

Gustave grabbed onto his arm and did not let go. Erik tugged at his fingers, hissing at him to release his sleeve. After some twisting, he managed to get free.

"Go to sleep, Gustave," Erik whispered. "I'll bring you some water to drink."

Gustave grunted something that sounded quite close to, "Don't want that". Erik shook his head and told himself he was imagining things. And later, Gustave did drink down the water.

It was during the second week that the fever broke. Erik felt hope flutter within his chest when he felt Gustave's forehead. But he quickly rid himself of it. The burns had yet to heal. Every day he checked the dressings and changed them when needed. Now he examined them again, ignoring Gustave's whimpers of pain. The burns were still red and blistered, but no longer looked as swollen and inflamed as before. Some patches, in fact, were healing, showing smooth new skin. It reassured him.

Near the end of the second week, Erik saw Gustave awaken fully and turn to look at him. He sat up and started to lean over, then stopped. While Gustave was unconscious, he could go about his business and pretend the mess of the last few days had not happened. But with Gustave awake, he could not forget the argument that had caused the entire ordeal.

They stared at each other for a full minute. Finally, when Erik could not stand the tension any longer, he said lamely, "You're awake."

Gustave didn't speak. He did, however, try to turn over so as to better face his father. Erik stopped him once more.

"Lie on your back," he said. "You can't move too much, or your injuries won't heal."

Gustave nodded as much as he could with a bandage on. He frowned, lifted his left hand to feel his face, then stared at his own arm, surprised at the bandages and at how stiff and painful it felt to move. Erik came around to the other side of the bed and moved his arm back down.

"Don't move too much, either," he said, feeling like he was having a conversation with a mute. "Your skin is healing, and you will irritate it if you move."

Gustave opened his mouth to speak but, after smoke inhalation and a week of unconsciousness, could not make any sound other than a croak. Looking disgusted at himself, he settled down on the bed (Erik thought he heard a sigh), and closed his eyes again.

Later, Erik returned with some water. Gustave grimaced but drank it anyway, clearing his throat a few times. About halfway through he seemed to tire of being treated like a baby, and demanded to hold it himself (through gesture, mostly). Erik ignored him and continued to treat him the same way as before, much to Gustave's displeasure.

A day later, Gustave finally spoke to him.

"I heard singing," he said weakly.

Erik gazed at him blankly. "Singing?" he repeated.

Gustave nodded. "You were." He coughed, struggling to regain his breath. Erik came over, worried, but Gustave went on, "I heard you, and I tried to listen to it more…" Another cough.

"Rest," Erik ordered, starting to put a hand on Gustave's head, then stopping himself. "We can talk later."

Gustave shook his head with as much fierceness as he could muster. "You rescued me," he said.

Erik stared at him. "Of course I did," he said slowly. "You're my son."

Gustave smiled.

Only when the boy was asleep did Erik remember the letter and what Gustave had somehow tricked him into saying.

* * *

_Cut out portions of Chapter 21_

_This is mostly Gustave recovering. It would have been spliced in with the other father-son fluffiness of Chapter 21, but obviously it wasn't, because it would have made no sense._

* * *

A day later, Gustave was sitting up in bed and eating on his own. Erik could finally leave his spot by his bed, a move he felt both worried and grateful for; his son was well enough to sleep on his own, yet like a coward he was avoiding any other awkward conversations with Gustave.

Just a day after that Gustave, bored in bed, got up left his room without Erik's knowledge. He didn't do anything terribly excited – he sat on the sofa and read a book – but when Erik found out he swept down on him, shook him, yelled at him for quite a while, then put him back in bed. Albeit with book in hand.

Of course, when that book was finished, he was crawling out, bandages and all, and going back to the bookshelf. Though the piano (somehow immune to Erik's destructive tendencies) was what really called him, he could not exactly play when an entire arm and half his face was wrapped in gauze. He could barely read as it was.

"Gustave!" He had not even made it to the bookshelf in time. Though this time it was because Erik was sitting outside, almost as if lying in wait for him. He was grabbed and put back into bed.

"But I don't have anything to do in here!" he cried as Erik tucked the covers around his body.

"I will get you another book," his father muttered, already rushing out. Gustave huffed and sat back on his pillow. His father had not said more than a few sentences to him at time, actually. He had no worries; Erik had said he was his son, and that meant he was not going anywhere. Right?

Maybe not. Erik did not think like other people. Now worried, Gustave crawled out of bed and ran back outside.

"Gustave!" Now his father was angry; Gustave could see it in every movement Erik made. Erik snapped, "I told you to stay in bed! I would get you-"

"Erik, am I going back to – to France?" Gustave interrupted.

Erik reeled back, not expecting the question. Unable to look the boy in the face, he turned around abruptly, speaking to the wall. "If – if you wish." Why would Gustave not? he thought bitterly. After all that happened, it would be surprising if he did not.

Gustave spoke to his father's back, "Do you want me to?"

Why did he insist on repeating the question? Erik wondered. He didn't answer, but moved to the piano, taking the letter.

Gustave stared at it, wondering what his father planned to do. Mail it? Rip it up?

Erik, too, was looking at it, brow creasing slightly. Gustave waited.

Making a decision, Erik kneeled next to Gustave and handed the letter to him. Gustave was so surprised, and so unsure of what to do, that he didn't take it until Erik lifted his hand for him and placed the letter between his fingers.

"This is your choice," said Erik gently. "I should not have decided without asking you. If I had known…" He let his words trail off, though the way his eyes raked over Gustave's injuries was telling enough. He sighed and went on, "I…can understand if you should…choose someplace far from here. I would not stay with me." He smiled as if it were a joke, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Your choice, Gustave." He closed Gustave's hands over the letter. "Choose wisely."

It was one of the most civil conversations they had had. But Gustave was left in a torment. Erik, thinking he could not decide if he was staring at him, walked away to the piano, playing with the keys. Gustave uncurled his fingers and held the letter up with his injured hand. Over and over Gustave read the letter, hoping to find the answer between the spidery lettering.

Go back to the man who had been his father for ten years? Or stay with his real father, who had, even at his worst, taken him in, rescued him, and cared for him? He knew that was unfair; Raoul would undoubtedly have tried to save him as well. No, he thought, Raoul would never have gotten the two of them into that sort of situation.

Erik accidentally pressed down on one of the keys, sending a note through the silence. It crystallized in Gustave's mind, freeing his thoughts. He had already decided, that terrible night his mother had died, to stay with Erik.

With his father.

He went wordlessly to Erik, who was struggling desperately to conceal his hope and his fear. Gustave hesitated; what could he say, what gesture could he do, to prove what he really felt? Realization came slowly. There was nothing he could do. Only time would prove him right.

But one gesture would be a good start.

So Gustave sat down by Erik. He placed the letter on the piano and turned it over to his own composition on the back, and started to play, clumsily and with only one hand. After a long moment, Erik placed his hand over Gustave's and stopped him. Then he played the piece himself.

It was a good moment.

* * *

A few days later, a very surprised doctor found an envelope filled with bills – not one dollar bills, either, but large denomination ones. There was no address, no letter, no indication at all of whom it came from. If it had not been nailed to the door (and how that could have happened without waking him up, the doctor did not know), the doctor would have assumed it was someone else's money they had lost.

But it was meant for him. He took it, and used the money to buy further supplies. Later, he would use these medicines to cure the son of a wealthy businessman from an unknown disease. The businessman was so grateful he offered the doctor a lucrative job, as head of a new, state-of-the-art hospital on the mainland. The doctor accepted and built the hospital into one of the best centers in the East.

A few days after the envelope was pounded onto the doctor's door, Phantasma, left alone for two weeks as smoldering wreckage, showed signs of new activity. Within a few months most of the stands and games had been put back up, their owners back as if they had never left. A few weeks after, performances resumed at both the freak show and, for the more cultured, the concert hall. A year later, all the rides had been rebuilt and construction had started once more on expanding Phantasma. The park was as it should be.

After all, Erik did not want his son to lose his inheritance.

* * *

Erik forced him to keep the bandages on for another week, even when Gustave stopped feeling any pain and started to itch instead, even when he was sure he had healed.

"May I take it off now?"

"Another day, Gustave."

"Please?"

"No. Be patient."

Another day passed. Gustave rubbed constantly all over, increasingly irritated by the discomfort. His father did not seem to mind when he sat by him on the sofa and fidgeted, but it annoyed Gustave more and more.

"Father!" he cried. "Please! I'm sure I'm well!"

Erik looked at him. "No, Gustave. I am your father, and I know better." He beckoned him over. "Come here and read this passage with me…"

Gustave sighed and sat down. Today, his father's distraction worked. The next day, it did not.

"Please, can I take-"

"No, Gustave."

"But I-"

"Gustave." His father's tone was a warning. Gustave shrank back against the cushions. Seeing this, Erik sighed.

"Very well." He stood, replacing the book on the shelf. "Let me help you."

He gently pulled off the gauze taped to Gustave's face. Gustave's left eye immediately started watering; three weeks in darkness, and even the negligible light of Erik's home was too much.

"Ah…" He clasped his hand over it, feeling tears run. "It's so bright…"

Erik removed his hand. Gustave tried to keep both eyes open but the left was stinging so badly he could not help but close both of them. Hence, he did not see his father's expression.

"Are you going to unwrap my arm?" he eventually asked, puzzled by the long silence. And it was his limb which was itching the most.

He heard Erik stir slightly. "Yes. Let me…let me get my scissors." Gustave listened for his father's receding footsteps, then smiled as they drew nearer once more.

"Hold still," said Erik. He cut away at the bandages, then unwrapped them. When they were free Gustave immediately started scratching at them.

"Gustave…" Erik grabbed his hand away. "They are mostly healed, but don't irritate them, or you'll just injure yourself more." Wryly, he added, "You don't want to spend another few days under bandages, do you?"

The itch was overwhelming, a prickling all up and down his arm. But Erik, holding both his hands prisoner, was not letting go. Gustave sighed. "No, Father."

"Why are your eyes closed?"

"My eyes hurt."

A strangled laugh escaped Erik. "Well…it's for the best." He lifted Gustave's shirt and started to take off the bandages from there as well. "There now. You are free from your imprisonment."

Gustave grinned. "All healed?" His eyes remained closed.

"…Mostly. Some patches here and there…"

Gustave ventured to open one eye, and when it did not pain him, the other. He blinked several times in rapid succession, trying to get the tears away. He smiled, glancing down at his arm and waist. His father had spoken true – there were red parts all over, but he knew that they would fade in time. He was merely glad to be out of the bandages.

"Come," said Erik. "We can read, or play some proper piano…and you can try a hand at composing again…"

Gustave nodded and followed. He rubbed at his eyes and frowned slightly, feeling some bumpiness around his face. A bit of exploration with his fingers told him that it went all around the left side of his face, to his scalp almost, where some of his hair was missing, and down his neck and shoulder.

"Father?" he said. "Is there a mirror?"

Erik tensed. "A mirror? What for?"

"My face feels a little strange…"

"It is fine," answered Erik too quickly. "Do you want to try the violin? I brought-"

Gustave pulled away to the bathroom, where there was a large, full-length mirror. Erik did not try to stop him.

"Oh," said Gustave. He touched his face. There were red and pink patches on his face, looking raw and open, like scabs he had picked out and exposed the skin out too early.

Erik came up behind him. "It will heal," he said quietly. "They will go away and no one will notice them, or even know they were there."

Gustave took his father's hand. When he thought of Erik, he knew he had nothing to complain about. And as Erik had said, these were temporary. He looked down at the ones on his arms. They looked worse – mottled red and brown, bumpy scars – but those could be covered.

Now he understood, if only on a small level, how his father felt, had felt, for every day of his existence. And he knew also that it was only Erik who could really understand what he was undergoing.

Gustave pulled at his father's sleeve until he was kneeling down beside him, then pulled off the mask.

"We look the same, now," said Gustave. He knew they didn't, he knew they were very differing levels of deformities – but the emotion behind it was what was truly important.

Erik held him, understanding. "We do."

* * *

_Deleted Chapter, formerly Chapter 22_

_This chapter was meant to show just how the other people who knew Christine were recovering, show Gustave and Erik coming to pay their respects at Christine's grave, and show some of Gustave's reactions to his father's old lair in the opera house (I happily admit that I failed at the last part). But there was too much conflict in the last portion for a chapter meant to show a winding down of action, and it just felt like I was dragging on the epilogue too long. _

_The only part I miss was, as I said, the first portion at the graveyard, particularly with Raoul, Meg, and Madame Giry. Poor people; they're either greedy bastards and prostitutes or cut out entirely.  
_

* * *

_Paris, France_

The wind blew light feathers of snow over the ground. The white flakes were barely visible against the gray, overcast sky.

Raoul thought that it befit his mood.

The wind tugged at the bouquet of flowers at his feet, threatening, but not quite managing, to scatter the flowers from their wrappings. He did not think he would ever find the energy to move them back if they should do so.

"Christine…"

He heard a light step behind him, then saw a flash of curly blonde hair hidden beneath a dark hood. Meg Giry looked at him from out of tear-filled eyes. Joining her was her mother, in her usual black attire.

Meg offered her hand to Raoul, who stared at it before deliberately refusing it. She let her hand drop.

"Monsieur…"

"It was my fault," Raoul whispered.

She looked stricken with grief. "Monsieur, do not blame yourself. No good will come of it."

He shook his head, though her reassurances touched him the way his own family could not. But they had never approved of his marriage, and every time they murmured their comforts he could see a gleam of triumph masked within. None knew how exactly Christine had died except for Meg and Madame Giry, but he knew his family suspected only the most sordid of tales.

They would not be far off, either.

He had come back to France with the body of the greatest soprano of the century in his arms, and laid her to rest in a private funeral. There had been few visitors and little that was grand or pretentious about it. Christine would not have liked that.

Beside her grave was a worn down, much smaller stone – that of her father. Raoul picked a flower and placed it before the grave as well, glad that the name was too worn down to make out. He did not want to think of the other member of his family, one whose fate remained unknown to him.

"Come with me, Monsieur," Madame Giry said behind him. She gestured to her daughter, who took Raoul's arm in her own light grip. "You have spent far too much time locked within your own home. It is time you had some company."

"I don't-" he started to protest.

"Company with those who knew Christine well," finished Madame Giry.

Meg offered a watery smile. "Please, Monsieur le Vicomte." She touched Raoul's shoulder. "It was not your fault."

She wondered why she was no weeping with the Vicomte. Christine had been her best friend, had danced and giggled and whispered stories with her in the Paris Opera House. Perhaps her tears were too frozen, numbed within herself. It still seemed surreal. A few weeks ago she had bid Christine goodbye, had watched her leave for America. Then, little more than a week later, the Vicomte was back, his son gone and Christine in his arms, dead of a gunshot wound he had proclaimed was his own…

Only her mother seemed unaffected, except for a few more lines around her eyes and mouth. Her mother had been the one to pull together a funeral, to force the Vicomte into attending, and to harry and encourage and force the two of them – Raoul and Meg – from their grief/

Raoul shook off Meg's comforting hand. "I killed-"

"It was an accident," Meg whispered, feeling tears slide down her cheeks.

"I brought her-" he insisted.

"She agreed to be brought there," interrupted Madame Giry. "And you agreed too…. And Erik's letter brought all of you there… and we can go on and on. What is done is done. We have to pick up the pieces and keep on living."

Raoul felt rage simmering within him. "Live for what?" he snapped. "My wife is dead… and my… my… Gustave… is no longer here…"

Meg led him away, flicking the snow from his sleeves. "Live for the rest of your family," she said quietly. "Live for your son."

"He was your son for ten years," said Madame Giry before Raoul could interrupt again. "Do not forget him. You raised the boy, shaped him, helped him. Live because he is with someone who loves him as much as you did, and live because that person too may die before Gustave is grown."

That was the only mention of Erik they made.

Raoul did not respond, but allowed them to lead him from the cemetery and to their own small home.

As they left, Madame Giry noticed a flicker of movement. She turned her head slightly, giving no indication that anything was out of the ordinary. Then she gave only the briefest of nods before leaving.

Silence swept over the cemetery. The wind had stopped, allowing the snow to fall gently down, settling on the stones, the ground, the flowers of the bereaved.

From out of the shadows stepped a man and a boy.

Erik gripped Gustave's shoulder tightly as they walked to Christine's grave. He held nothing; it was his son who placed the single red rose on her grave and stood, clutching his father's hand equally hard.

"Christine…"

She had given him a voice for his music, a transcendent love, a reason for being. For one terrible moment he wished it was he lying in the earth and not her, for surely a woman such as her, who had done so much good and who had held love for even the most wretched of beings, did not deserve to die.

Gustave grabbed his father's arm and leaned into his body, wiping away his tears quickly. Erik bent down and silently handed the boy a handkerchief. When Gustave mumbled a refusal he sighed, and cleaned off Gustave's face himself.

It felt so terribly wrong, not to be close to this one final piece of Christine, to leave only a single rose as a parting gift.

He knelt down, then, pulling off the ring he had worn, had continued to wear for the last ten years, and placed it on the grave.

Gustave stared at it, then looked back at his father. "What are you doing?"

Erik stood, not answering. Gustave rushed to the grave and picked up the ring, holding it out to him.

"Keep it," he pleaded. "Mother would want you to keep it."

Christine had left him with her own parting gift.

He took it, placed it back on his hand, then cupped Gustave's cheek in his own hand.

"Come," he said at last. "I want to make one last journey."

* * *

The Paris Opera House was not as Erik remembered it. After the fire it had been rebuilt, with subtle changes that only he, who had wandered its hallways for so long, could notice.

"The Opera House?" queried Gustave, staring up at its ornate decorations. "Why are we here?"

Erik sidestepped the question: "Have you been here before?" he asked instead.

Gustave nodded. "Mother and Fa-Raoul took me." He started for the front door and was promptly jerked back.

"We are not going through the front entrance," said Erik, leading him around. It had been ten years, but he doubted the legends of the masked Phantom had died down. No doubt they were still being told to frighten young ballet rats.

"Where are we going?" panted Gustave, rushing to keep up with his father.

Erik slowed down slightly and answered, "To the back. I know of another entrance." A pause. "I used it when I was about your age."

Gustave followed in increasing amazement as Erik led him to a grate which opened on shrill hinges, past what looked like a small chapel, and through a piece of wall which moved back when he pressed a certain brick. When it had closed behind him, trapping the stale air within, Erik laid a hand on Gustave's shoulder and said, "Stay here. I will be back shortly."

And before Gustave could voice any thought he was off. The boy stood in stunned shock, then cried "No!" and went dashing after him.

Erik whirled around. "Gustave!"

"I want to come!"

"You most certainly cannot come here!"

"Why not?"

"This is a dangerous area!" replied Erik furiously. "It is full of traps and other dangers!"

"But what if you get into trouble?"

Erik just stared at him. Having someone concerned for his well-being was still new to him; having that someone be his ten-year-old son was unnerving. Regaining his voice, he said, "I can take care of myself. I know this place well." I designed it was his unspoken (and rather grumpy) thought.

"But…" Gustave did not voice his thought – that he was frightened of being in the dark, echoing chambers of the opera house, that he did not want to be alone. He could not say it, not in front of his father.

But Erik seemed to guess it anyway. Something in him softened, at least, for he said, "Very well, you may accompany me, but only until we reach the edge of the lake."

"Lake?"

Erik took his arm and led him through a maze of passages and corridors, hidden corners and rooms; then they were through a hidden panel and going down a long flight of stairs.

"Be careful," cautioned Erik. "Follow only in my footsteps."

Gustave looked down and crashed into the wall. Erik sighed and simply picked up the boy.

"I can walk!" cried Gustave, struggling. Erik lurched dangerously close to the edge of the steps, and though there was a thick foot of wall separating the two from the long fall below, Gustave did catch a glimpse of the darkness. He screamed.

"Stop moving!" Erik snarled, trying to keep hold of the wildly flailing boy. "Stop – Gustave – STOP!" He held the boy out so that Gustave was kicking in the air and not at his ribs or other tender parts. "Gustave!" he thundered. "Stop struggling and let me explain!"

Gustave went limp, eyes wide.

Erik released a breath he had not realized he was holding. "All right. It is a long way down," he silenced Gustave's squeak with his hand, "and there are many of my own little tricks along the way – which is why you should have stayed above – but if you let me hold you and stop moving so damn much then we can move through here safely, is that clear?"

Gustave nodded, body shaking in Erik's arms from the force.

"Good." Erik held him closer, noting his son's weight. It would be difficult maneuvering through his catacombs with a ten-year-old boy in his arms.

"I am leaving you by the edge of the lake," he said, making his way down the stairs with careful steps. "And you will stay there."

Gustave didn't answer.

When they entered more level ground, Erik put his son down. Once he had torches illuminating the way; they had been long put out, and they went through in pitch darkness. With Gustave's hand firmly in his, he led the way, feeling the rough edges of the wall to find his way through.

"Father?"

"Don't let go of me, Gustave. There will be light in a few moments."

"Where?"

"Parts of this place are falling apart. They will be open to the daylight."

Sure enough they started seeing dappled patches of clouded sky overhead, providing brief, wondering flickers of illumination. Gustave could sometimes make out, in the gloom, brackets that may once have held torches, now long since gone out.

"Here we are." Erik stopped. He shuffled around, then hit a switch. With a vast creaking ache the tunnels were lit up as lights emerged from out of the walls, flames shivering violently.

"I am surprised these are still working," Erik murmured, letting go of Gustave's hand and looking around with an air of discontent. "Still, I did design them to last…"

He moved around, and only then did Gustave see the water's edge but a few inches from his feet. He gasped in wonder as he observed the long passages of water ahead of him, turning around a corner.

"I had a gondola, but I'm sure that is gone," continued Erik. Without hesitation he leaped into the water, and when the splashing had subsided Gustave could see that it was not deep, perhaps chest-high for Erik.

"Stay here," his father ordered, then continued on.

Gustave yelped "No!" and leaped in after.

Erik turned and shouted, "GUSTAVE!" Quicker than Gustave thought any man could move in water his father was diving on him; both went under the water and bobbed back up in time for Gustave to see what looked like an explosion in the place where he had just been standing. That terror was soon forgotten when Erik's looming form hurled Gustave bodily onto land, both soaking wet.

"Gustave!"

Gustave crawled back, terrified and spitting up lake water.

"I told you to stay!" roared Erik; the whiplike motion of his arm sent drops spraying over his son. "I told you to stay on land. To stay behind! Why didn't you listen?"

"I-"

"No!" Erik grabbed the front of his son's shirt. "When I tell you to do something, you obey, do you hear me?" He shook his son and then flung him back. "Well, do you?"

Gustave started to cry, curling against the wall in terror. Erik yelled something best drowned out by his own echoes, then flung himself about and kicked at the ledges hanging over the water. A stone flew loose and rapped against the opposite walls, then plopped into the water.

Gustave continued to cry as his father, back to him, stared into the distance, shoulders heaving. After a moment, he saw Erik's head turn slightly towards him. This tiny movement alone forced Gustave to speak.

"F-F-Father?" He heard Erik sigh and gulped back his tears. "I – I'll stay. Really." He wiped at his face. Erik didn't move, except to drop his head. "I'm sorry I went after you…"

Erik's sigh seemed to echo all the way down the lake. He turned and heaved himself onto dry land, dripping water. "Gustave…"

Seeing he was forgiven – or at least not being screamed at – Gustave huddled next to his father, not minding the cold or the dampness of Erik's shirt.

"I just want to be with you," he said miserably.

"Why?" asked Erik in frustration. "This is no place for a child. And I would not be gone long."

Gustave did not answer. There were no words for this strange fear that seemed larger and more nebulous, more dangerous, than his fear of drowning. All he knew was that he wanted to be with Erik all the time, that he wanted his father within sight or hearing, that he did not want to be alone.

But… "I'll stay. I can stay." He tugged at his father's sleeve. "Don't be gone too long, all right?"

Erik looked at him, then into the watery hallways. He slipped into the water and managed to move a few feet ahead before Gustave saw him stop and groan.

"All right! Come over here – not into the water, over there!" He jerked his hand to Gustave's left. "Good. Now hold still – hold still, do you hear? – and let me help you."

He lifted Gustave into the air and deposited him on the dry ledge hanging over the water. It was so narrow Gustave had to cling to his father's shoulder to balance and walk on it, bent over almost sideways. When he took a hesitant step it was to almost slip off the mossy stones.

"Careful!" Erik pushed him back up, gripping his side so that Gustave could stand properly. "Now, just follow me. Let me lead."

"I can come with you?"

"Yes, what do you think you're doing on there? But don't go on ahead! I have nasty tricks planted into these walls-"

Gustave asked, "Why don't you let me go on the other side?"

Erik answered, "Because there are even more traps there."

"Why are there less here?"

"The ones here are more dangerous." Erik started to walk, holding his son upright. It was a slow journey through the lair, with only the sloshing of the water and the dripping from the walls making any noise. Many times Gustave had to duck slightly to avoid hitting the torches. Sometimes Erik would let go of Gustave and walk around a certain area, avoiding a spot. Other times he would, without explanation, lift his son from the ledge and hold him for a period of time.

"We're here," Erik said at last. He placed Gustave on yet another ledge and disappeared briefly, giving the boy time to examine the looming gate, encrusted with dried seaweed and various other underwater creatures. Beyond that he could see nothing.

With a groan the gate lifted, protesting loudly all the way with a series of creaks and screeching of metal against stone. Erik emerged and picked up his son again. As they entered the cavern, candles rose out of the lake bottom and lit up, sending a dull orange light everywhere.

"I am amazed these still work," commented Erik, dropping Gustave on dry land at last while looking at the candles. "Ten years is a long time."

Gustave shook the water from his pants and scampered to the top of the overhanging ledge. "What is this place?"

"My lair." His tone was brusque, and Gustave knew well enough to let alone. He merely followed his father about as Erik examined metal candle holders, papers scattered along the floor that were wet from the lake air and overgrown with moss, shattered mirrors, and a ruined organ.

"Father?" Gustave said tentatively into the silence. "What do you mean by' your lair'?"

"Not now, Gustave," was Erik's short answer. He let his fingers run down the keys of the organ. The ivory pieces were broken, or otherwise smudged with dirt and dust. He did not know himself why he had bothered to make the long journey down. Perhaps to see what remained. Perhaps to see what had changed. But the truest part was his hope, that if he stayed long enough, held all the sights and sounds and senses of his old realm within his mind and simply did not let go, he might go back to another time… before Coney Isle… before Don Juan, before the chandelier, before the unmasking… to when Christine was still alive, still with years ahead of her, and only wandering curiously around his lair.

Erik sighed and turned away, stopping when he saw his son. His hand drifted over Gustave's wet hair, but did not make contact.

"Let's go," he said at last, dropping his arm. "There's nothing here." There never had been.

Gustave gripped onto his father's shoulders as Erik lifted him up and they started the long journey back. Uncomfortable with the silence, with his father's constant brooding, he asked, "Why did we go there?" He frowned. "Did you live there? You said it was yours, right?"

"Yes. It was my home for… a long time."

Gustave peered around further, craning his neck over his father's back to get one last view of the lair. Ruined, shattered, almost devoid of its past magnificence, yet Gustave could still see some remnants of beauty, some sign that his father had made the place and lived there.

As they walked back, Gustave felt a drop of water splash onto his face. Erik snorted but looked otherwise the same when Gustave turned to glare at him.

"Father? This is below the Opera House, right?"

"Yes."

"Mother used to live here, didn't she?"

"Yes."

"So…" He struggled to put it together. "Did she meet you, here? Did you meet her here?"

Silence. Eventually, "Yes."

Gustave's initial excitement – at his working it out, at Erik's confirmation – quickly burst at the short answer. Knowing he was treading on dangerous ground, he asked, "What happened?" Quickly, for explanation, he said, "I asked, but she never said…and now…I can't…"

Erik was silent for a long time. Only the sloshing of water, the dripping of the walls, could be heard. Gustave thought that his father would never answer, until he said,

"I heard her singing, once. She had a friend, a ballet rat, urging her on. She sang and…" He sighed, closing his eyes in wonderment at the mere memory of that beloved voice. "…and it was breathtaking. Untrained, but so much potential."

He paused, lifted Gustave from the ledge, and continued on in silence until he had reached a safer area. Depositing the boy once more, he continued, "And then I taught her."

"She said she had a good teacher," said Gustave tentatively. "Once, I asked her where she had learned to sing… and she said her teacher had taught her in only a few months."

"Yes…yes…"

Gustave waited, but his father did not continue. He worked up his courage once more to ask, "And then what happened? Mother said she sang when the old singer left."

Erik's lip quirked slightly. "Left. You could say that…"

"And?" prompted Gustave.

"And I was proud of her… very proud… but then…"

"Then?"

Erik turned away. "I brought her down here."

Gustave smiled. Was that how his parents had fallen in love? He guessed as much. He had seen the splendor of Erik's lair even in its state of disrepair, and he couldn't imagine his mother being anything other than overcome by the place, by his father, in its full glory.

But… he remembered Raoul. His mother surely could not have been in love with Erik if she had stayed with Raoul. And then he looked at Erik, whose face remained hidden in darkness so that only the mask gleamed back at him… and he thought of himself. And it came together.

"Mother saw your face, didn't she?"

Erik's silence was enough of an answer.

"I'm sorry," he said lamely.

Erik twisted around to look at him. "There is nothing for you to be sorry about," he snapped. Turning his attention back to the water, he murmured, "It's in the past. It's best not to think of it."

Gustave hopped over a protruding stone. "But she loved you anyway, right?"

"She did…she did…

They had reached the end. Erik helped Gustave onto the stairway, the pair making their way back to the surface.

"Father?"

"Yes, Gustave?"

He searched Erik's face. "Can you tell me what happened? All of it?"

Erik's expression closed. "No. Not today."

Gustave was disappointed, but not surprised. "Why not?"

"It is not a happy story."

They stopped halfway through when Gustave had to catch his breath. Erik walked the steps with his usual smooth, long strides, but Gustave was half climbing the steep stairs, panting as he tried to keep up with his father. Oftentimes Erik would pause and wait, or reach out a helping hand where the stones had crumbled or were particularly high, but despite this Gustave was quite fatigued and more than willing to sit down.

"Father?" he said between gasps. "Why – why did you want to come here?"

Erik leaned back against the steps, looking up at the circling stairs. He said, "Memories."

"Memories? Of…Mother?"

"Yes…and more…" He rubbed the left side of his face jerkily. "To see how much had changed… how much had stayed the same…"

"Stayed…the same?"

"Alone." Erik was talking to himself. "Nobody there…as always. Nothing remains…"

Gustave moved closer. "What about changes?"

Erik started back at his voice, then looked down at his son. He smiled ever so slightly. "A few…" He touched Gustave's face. "A little." As if feeling uncomfortable being so affectionate, he stood, brushing the dirt from his clothing. "Are you rested?"

Gustave wasn't, but he didn't want to admit it. "Yes."

Erik looked him over critically. "You are not. Come here." He scooped him up. Gustave pulled away.

"Put me down!"

"You are tired."

"I'm not! I can walk!" He struggled, though not so hard that he might rock Erik and knock them both into the lake far below. "Put me down, right now! I'm not a child!"

"You are to me," said Erik, shifting the boy over. Gustave huffed indignantly. Erik looked at his irritated face and said pleadingly, "Gustave, let me do this for once. I missed ten years of your life. All right?"

Gustave grouched and struggled and moped and felt horribly small and embarrassed, but he let him. He spent the rest of his time in the opera house resting in his father's arms. Only when they reached the surface, and a sun setting beyond the horizon, Erik let Gustave free. The boy scampered around, shaking off the feeling of pins and needles from his legs.

"Are we going to leave?" he asked mournfully. France felt familiar; it had been home for ten years, and he could not resist the urge to look longingly towards the direction of the de Chagny estate. Once they left Paris, left the opera house and his mother and grandfather's grave behind, he could not come back. In a way, it was as momentous as when he had held that letter and decided to stay in Coney Island.

Erik stepped behind him. "Yes. France is not my home." He did not say 'not your home'; he knew what his son was thinking. And Gustave knew that if he should decide to go running back to Raoul, even now, Erik would not stop him. He could see, from his father's perfectly calm demeanor, that he still expected the boy to leave.

He took Erik's hand then. "All right. When will we leave?"

Erik looked down at him, and months of living with Erik, with his mercurial temper and sudden changes in mood, were enough to detect a slight softening, a concealed relief that Gustave still chose to remain with him.

"Whenever you like, Gustave. Whenever you like."

Gustave smiled and ran to him, grabbing his hand. "Tomorrow? The day after?"

"Of course."

* * *

And there we have it.

Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed, both here and on other sites. This really was my first story in a fandom that has many incredibly devoted fans, so it was a little scary - would it fulfill expectations, or would it bring them crashing down?

I want to say that this is not my last story in LND or POTO, but I have a bad habit about keeping promises like that. I'll simply say that I have a bunch of ideas in both fandoms, and I hope that I'll be posting new stuff soon.

And since it is the final two chapters, please review! And thanks again for reading!


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